Sohma Armagrin towered over the low tropical brush that lined the path to the village. Her skin, dark and soft as the moist ground under her feet, glistened lightly in the heat and oppressive humidity. But there was no sign of strain on her face. She kept her head raised and her pace steady, silver eyes focused intensely under heavy, expressive eyebrows.

When she stepped into the square, the people were cautious of her. They drew closer together and lowered their voices. Sohma tried to soften her gaze.

“I need to speak with an elder,” she said, firmly but not threateningly. “I’m looking for someone here.”

Pause. No one spoke, not even to each other. It was what Sohma expected—no one in the little enclave understood High Marioc.

Then, by chance, an older man stepped forward. His face was long and bony, his chest bare, and his legs covered in local fashion by a long, un-dyed cloth that was tied at the waist. “You’re from the Hill,” he stated. “The city, I mean. If you don’t speak our language, you may have a hard time talking to the person you’re seeking. But I’ll help how I can.”

It was a simple process. Sohma already had a name for her subject: Brin Sachko. The man showed her the house where the family lived—a long, one-story house of light wood with a roof of thatched leaves, raised a foot or two off the ground by small stilts. A soft-faced woman sat outside on the deck, removing the unripe green shells from tree nuts. She took only a moment to look up from her work and survey the visitors.

The thin man gestured for Sohma to wait a moment. He approached the woman casually, exchanged a few words with her in their language, then thanked her (Sohma thought) and turned to report back. “Her name is Leilani,” the man explained. “Brin is her daughter. She says the girl speaks a little Marioc, and it’s alright for you to see her.”

“Thank you very much,” Sohma replied, bowing slightly. She was nearly a foot taller than her guide.

The man nodded silently, then headed back toward the village. Sohma started off toward the house. As she walked, she saw Leilani stand up, make some kind of gesture to her, then go into the house through the open doorway.

“There’s someone outside,” Grandmother said, her fingers working deftly at the weaving even as she looked away. “No, two people. It’s Goro from the dry part and a lady from the city. Goodness,” she remarked, and turned her head slightly. “She makes him look like a child.”

“From the city?” Brin, who had been lying with her back to the floor, sat up.

“What does she want?  Money?”

“Don’t know,” the old woman answered. “Look, now Goro’s talking to Leila. Oh—it’s you!” Grandmother nodded with certainty. “The city lady wants to see you. He says she asked for you by name.”

“How does anybody in the city know my name?” she asked.

Brin looked outside with one hand curled around the doorway, watching carefully, puzzled and just a little bit anxious.

She moved back to let her mother inside. “The tall lady wants to talk to you, Brin,” Leilani repeated. She didn’t sound worried. “I told her she could come in. I don’t think she means any harm, but I’ll make her leave if she makes you uncomfortable, okay?”

The girl nodded silently. She didn’t know what to think, except that she trusted her mother’s judgment. The three women arranged themselves on the sides of a thick woven mat on the floor, leaving a space at the end for the guest. The minute or so they waited for her to enter, Leilani spent quickly smoothing Brin’s hair with her hands.

Sohma paused, not knowing if she should expect the mother to come back out. Then, at last, she dared to go inside, and found the inhabitants looking (thankfully) as though they expected her. They had been very welcoming up to this point, but it was easy to tell that she made them uncomfortable. Sohma attempted a disarming smile and sat down.

The Marsh People were smallish, delicate creatures, with long, leaf-shaped ears and skin that ran a range from grayish to moss-green. The resemblance of the women in this house was clear: the eye shape reflected across all three faces, and the shades of blue-green in the hair, which ran from dark and muted for the old woman to shiny and bright for the child. She found it easy to imagine that what the historians in Salberid City theorized was true: that their odd appearance was tailored specifically for their environment. It was for this reason, people said, that the little green people had been able to live for generations in a corner of the continent that had proved over and over to be inhospitable to outside settlement.

“You’re Brin, aren’t you?” Sohma began, addressing the youngest. She took care to speak clearly. For her part, the girl looked almost startled.

“Yes,” the girl replied after a moment. Her words were stilted slightly, and she spoke with a clear accent. “My name is Brin. Fourteen years old.”

Leilani and the old woman looked at each other, trying to follow the conversation. Sohma smiled, admittedly surprised that the swamp girl spoke the language of the city, and fairly well at that.

“I’m Dama Sohma Armagrin,” the tall woman explained. “I’m from the Deva Conservatory in Salberid City. Do you mind if I ask where you learned Marioc?”

Brin paid close attention, and thought for a moment before she responded. “My father,” the girl said. “He lives in Erenfall a long time ago.”

“I understand,” said Sohma. Erenfall was a village not far from the city, known for having a large population of urbanized Marsh People. It was common for young people to take up living there for a few years, sending money back to their households to provide for the family, then move back home when they were ready to have children. Although most daily business was conducted in Sakhá, the predominant dialect of the Marsh People’s native language, a large percentage of young people were Sakhá-Marioc bilingual because of the frequent contact with Salberid.

“I’ll try to be brief,” the guest continued. “About a week ago, a young woman studying at the conservatory had a prophetic dream.” Sohma paused, second-guessing her word use. Would Brin understand “prophetic?” She didn’t know a tactful way to ask. “The next morning, she said the only thing she remembered was a name—your  name. I recognized the surname as Marsh, but that was all we had to go on. I had to ask around the Cliffs settlement before I even had an idea of where to find you.”

Pause. “I don’t understand,” said the girl. And Sohma could tell that it was the truth, more or less. Questions seemed to linger in her small mouth that her vocabulary could not express.

“The Deva Conservatory is where we train Summoners from all over the country,” Sohma explained. “Most students come to us themselves, and not all who come are accepted. But occasionally a name is revealed to directly. When that happens, the person is usually someone very important.”

Brin struggled to keep up, to separate the foreign words in her head into an intelligible syntax. It was all she could do to keep still and maintain eye contact. The pieces came together slowly, but it was strange—it still felt like she was missing something important. This woman was a Summoner. What was she doing in the Marsh?

“What’s she saying?” Grandmother interjected. “Is she upsetting you?”

“Somebody had a dream about me,” said Brin. “She says they want me to be a Summoner.”

“I thought Marsh People were too savage to learn city magic,” said the mother. “Hasn’t it always been that way?”

Brin gave a small nod. It was the impression she had, too. But in her mother’s voice there was a hint of questioning, as if she were wondering if the tired stereotype could have finally let up. The general contempt of the Salberidans toward the Marsh People was as old as the city itself. Outside of condescending ethnographic research, foreigners rarely entered the wetlands at all.

The outsiders were  different. There was no desire to seek magic among the Marsh People. A person discovered their magic ability organically, and if he wanted to develop that ability, he became a Songkeeper’s apprentice. Magic was an old part of the Marsh People’s culture—but they kept it within the culture, didn’t open it up and build temples to it, didn’t poke at it and try to inductively understand it. The Salberidans found it folky. To the Marsh People, it was an attitude built upon generations of cultural learning.

Brin had magic in her. Her mother knew, and her father’s family knew, although none of them were particularly open about it outside of that. Not until she had decided what to do about it. There had been no pressure to make a choice until the tall woman arrived.

“I know it’s strange to hear,” Sohma interjected. She couldn’t be sure of what the relatives were saying to each other, but she could extrapolate from the tension in the room. “The Conservatory has an unfortunate history of discrimination in favor of Plains People. But that’s a human error, and a relatively recent one. The spirit of Summoning magic is the same as it’s always been—and it’s the same here as in the city. Your magic comes from the Sky God, and so does ours.”

The Marsh People seemed to respond to this. Brin’s deep green eyes sparked with recognition, which put the older women more at ease. Sohma felt like she was finally getting through.

“You want me to live in the city,” Brin said. “Is it?”

“Basically, yes,” said Sohma. “Summoners from the Marsh are rare. I know that. Summoning was intended to be a pan-cultural form of magic, and the capable magicians of the Marsh have tended to choose healing and Songkeeping instead. The Plains People misunderstood this preference as a lack of ability, which made things even more complicated. But I believe that the Sky God chose you because he believes you can do something important. It’s my job to help you find out what that is, and to prepare you for it.”

“Oh,” Brin responded. The sound was common to both languages.

Her father’s sister was a Songkeeper. She wore her deep green hair in a long braid, woven through with flowering vines from the trees that grew at the edge of the Black Rock Lake. She was a short, shapely woman with a round face and kind eyes. She spent her days naming babies and foretelling weather, and her nights tracing intricate symbols at the altar of Siragthan. When Dama Sohma said that their magic came from the Sky God, Brin didn’t object; in a broad way, it was true. But everyone in the Marsh knew without question that Songkeeping magic came from Siragthan, the horned serpent who lay dormant in the center of the Earth.

From the earliest days of her magic using, Brin had expected to become a Songkeeper. It seemed more of a given fact than a choice. Some Marsh magicians became healers, it was true—but in the Marsh, magical professions ran in families, and most of the healers came from the plateau, what the older ones called the “dry parts.” But Brin didn’t mind it. It felt nice to have a family tradition. She imagined a future where she would be the one to wear the woven-reed cape on the solstice and sing the song that lulled the mudfish to sleep for the winter. She pictured her thick, cyanic hair in a seven-strand braid.

But there was a new path unfolding in front of her—a life outside. Salberid city—stone, metal and glittering glass windows. Not careful traditional magic, but Summoning, the terrifying result of a thousand years of deliberate development. Songkeeping magic was gradual; it followed a seasonal pattern of fluctuation, and had a limited scope. The Summoner’s magic, as the name implied, could be used on-demand. For the Marsh People, this was almost sacrilege. The Lake settlement in particular refused any contact with Salberid because of it. But that was a regional particularity, not a result of the culture itself. Siragthan’s magic was restricted, it was true. But Summoning magic didn’t come from Siraghthan.

Dama Sohma said her piece and left them. The proposition lingered in Brin’s head the whole night, settled into her bones and kept her awake. The Sky God believes you can do something special. She had never thought much about the Sky God. She couldn’t imagine what was special about her.

It was the month just before the hottest time of the year, when the high sun warms the creeks during the day and the mudfish come out from their dens to spawn. When Brin and her mother went out to fish the next day, wading through the high water with their long skirts tied up around their waists, the girl was quieter than usual. Her mother broke the silence, catching a flat fish through the back with one deft deployment of the short spear. Then she turned back, and by chance, she caught Brin’s eyes.

“You don’t want to stay here forever, do you?” Leilani said. Her voice was soft, but Brin was caught off-guard. Here? She made it sound like something bad. It couldn’t be. She loved living at home, wrapped in the comforting protection of a loving family. She loved following familiar traditions, singing the songs and eating the foods that had bound the people of the Marsh for thirty generations.

“I don’t want to leave,” the girl said quickly, self-consciously. “I love you, and Baba, and everyone, and I—“

“I know,” the mother replied. “But what the woman from the city said was right. There’s always been something a little special about you. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when you started growing little green leaves from old fish heads.” She let out a mild, pleasant laugh, and Brin flushed slightly. “I wonder what the tall lady would think if she knew that was the first magic you ever did.”

A few birds chirped in the thin, drooping canopy. Around their hips, small clusters of tiny fish nipped at the bugs on the water’s surface. Stay here forever? No—Brin had never thought about it like that. She kept her thoughts in the present precisely because the future was nebulous and uncertain. In a kind of abstract way, she did want to broaden her experience—but she had never been away from home long, either. What was it like to sleep somewhere without her mother in the hammock below her, or her father on the floor nearby, in a strange city where there were no little black frogs to chirp in your dreams?

“I don’t think you were meant to be a Songkeeper,” Leilani said. “I wish I could explain it better than that, but I can’t. You weren’t meant to stay with us here. It’s not by chance that you picked up Marioc so easily. Baba and I always expected you to go to Erenfall when you got old enough.”

Erenfall? Her father had worked for a bank there for a few years when she was a little girl. Since then, he remained just a little bit cosmopolitan, and it was from him that Brin learned to write and read, Sakhá and Marioc both. When she thought about it, her mother’s words made sense. A literate person was out of place in the Marsh; there was no need for it.

An off movement in the water. With a swift movement of the wrist Brin drove her spear down into the water, piercing a fat silver fish through the eye. Her free hand moved the catch, which was still thrashing slightly, from the spear point to the woven basket strapped to her mother’s back. In the water, a trail of red-black blood disappeared with the current.

“I love you so much,” Leilani said. “And if you want to stay home for the rest of your life, I wouldn’t mind. But I really think that there’s more for you out there.”

“Really?”

The women looked at each other. Her mother’s face was thin and delicate; she had shiny, jade-green hair that fell in loose curls across her shoulders and deep, kind blue eyes. She was the person Brin loved and trusted most in the world.

“Really,” she said.

“I don’t even recognize you anymore,” Brin said, grinning. “You’re so grown up now.”

She was seventeen years old, still rail-thin, her unruly blue hair arranged in a thick three-strand braid. She faced her friend in the vast practice hall on the fourth floor of the Deva Conservatory, where tall, arched windows let in the cool sunlight of the late-winter afternoon.

”Yeah, I’m finally taller than you,” Simran replied. A little older than Brin, she had a slight but feminine figure, and coarse orange hair gathered into a thick ponytail.

There was maybe fifty feet between them. Simran clapped her hands in front of her chest, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath in through her nose. Then, suddenly, she flung out her hands, palms turned outward, and a column of flames rose out of the floor, scorching the stone tile beneath it. There was a loud crack as the air heated around the fire, and the sudden breeze blew Brin’s hair back from her face She watched, awestruck.

It was Simran’s dream that summoned Brin Sachko to Salberid City. For a long time after she arrived, they had been peers; then, when Simran finished her academic work, she left for her pilgrimage. She was twenty years old now, strong and confident, two and a half years removed from the child Brin had studied alongside. She had been back in the city for less than a week, and more than anything, Brin was overjoyed to see her again—but a little bit melancholy, too, not to mention slightly envious.

Pilgrimage was the last essential step in the creation of a Summoner. The graduated apprentice spent thirty months travelling all over the Sky God’s creation, fostered along the way by locals of each region, with the goal of building a deeper understanding of magic in all of its forms. In the process, a pilgrim had ample time to study and improve his basic skills, and came back much more powerful than how he had left. Such was the case with Simran, who on the day of her departure had just finished learning  to light candles.

She was different now—they were both different. Although it unsettled her that her close companion had become a stranger, Brin understood that she had grown, too—and she was excited to show Simran how much better she’d become.

Brin’s eyes settled on the black carbon stain in the middle of the floor. “Hang on,” she said, eyes sparkling. “I want to show you something, too.”

Back straight, shoulders back, palms down. Brin drew force up from the floor, inhaled slowly. Focused. Pulled at the ground. Heat began to bubble up in her pectoral muscles from the strain. The tips of her ears grew cold. Her fingertips felt heavy.

There. She could feel it happening. Little sprouts began to emerge from the floor, covering the dusty black. The stems broke open into tender green leaves, then curled under at the ends and settled into a lush, verdant carpet.

When Brin opened her eyes, she saw a wide grin spread across Simran’s face. The taller woman raised her hand to cover her mouth. “Oh my goodness,” she managed through excited chuckles. “Dama’s gonna throw you out if you messed up the grout, cupcake.”

“They’re not rooted to anything,” Brin explained, giving a self-aware smile of her own. She walked toward the leaf patch and kicked some of the plants aside, which easily scattered away from the scorched tile in small clusters.

“That’s really good, though,” Simran went on. “God. You really haven’t let up since I’ve been gone, have you?”

“I didn’t want you to come back and be disappointed in me,” said Brin.

Then, for a moment, it seemed like the natural order had been restored. There was no tension or anticipation, just the comfortable intimacy of close classmates.

Simran was the first one to speak. “Alright, that’s enough for right now, cupcake,” she said. Forming a triangle with her outstretched hands, she cast another skill. The little plants and the scorch mark disappeared with a short rush of swirling air. “Dama wants everybody in the triptych room before lunch.”

The triptych for which the room had been named was an old oil painting that had been in the Conservatory’s collection since the time of the founders. It was eight feet tall, nearly the height of the room, and six feet across all three panels. One story held that it was painted by an early Summoner who saw a vision of a forest that existed on the celestial plane. Another said that it was by the architect who designed the Conservatory building, and that it depicted the East Forest before the expansion of Salberid City. The left and right panels were covered in dark, verdant foliage, the canopy interwoven with bright specks of fauna. In the middle panel was an open plain, spring green with highlights of yellow, a purple-blue twilight sky stretching out above it. It was the centerpiece of the room, flanked by metal stems holding two thick tallow candles. Every aspect of the room’s décor was intended to showcase the deep, rich colors of the triptych: the dark red walls, the velvet furniture, the single small window covered with shutters of dark-stained wood.

Brin and Simran walked in together, taking their places on a small sofa around the central seating area. Dama Sohma was already standing in front of the painting, and a few other people from the Conservatory sat waiting for her to begin. One woman drank mineral water from a brandy glass. Brin wondered if there would be drinks for everyone.

“Let me say first that I’m so glad to have you back, Simran,” the Dama began, and her smile was a ray of sun in the dark room. The small white spots painted above her eyebrows moved with the changes in her expression. “Your hosts had nothing but good things to say. You’ve made excellent progress.”

Simran made no reply, but bowed her head graciously. The woman with the brandy gave her a small clap.

“As for the ones still out,” Sohma continued, “Raika and Luti have reached the continent again, but they still have quite a lot of work to do. I’ve been assured they are doing well.” Nods from around the room.

“Since Simran has returned, it’s time to start preparing a fresh pilgrim. It may feel a bit soon, but I don’t see any sense in wasting time.” Dama’s face was bright. Brin picked up on it immediately. For her sudden, irrepressible grin, she received a knowing look from Simran.

“Little cupcake’s all grown up,” said Sohma, a brief colloquial aside. Then, she addressed the room again. “Brin is next up to make a pilgrimage,” she told them. “She’s completed all six sections of the preparatory work now, and been assessed by Dam Warner and I personally. All that’s left is to make the preparations. That is,” she appended, looking at Brin—“if you choose to accept the task?”

“Of course,” said the girl, flushing slightly.

“I didn’t doubt it,” Sohma replied, nodding, “but everything gets done by the book around here. No objections, correct?”

The room affirmed it. Brin’s excitement bloomed. Suddenly, everything was happening around her. It meant that she had to leave Simran as soon as she arrived—and that would hurt her—but it was the cost for completing her own training and returning as a practitioner of equal skill.

“Simran looks very happy,” said Dam Warner, thumbing through pages of the big leatherbound book on the table. He was a tall man, taller than Sohma, even, with gray-violet skin, silky black hair and pleasant, sleepy eyes. “Much happier since she’s developed her practice a little more. I remember she was always a little put-off by the little one’s natural talent.”

“We don’t have a magical culture in the Plains anymore,” Sohma qualified, and gave her colleague a look. “Marsh children have been saturated with magic for two thousand years. That’s all it is. Simran thought Brin didn’t have to work as hard for her progress, and that bothered her. But now she’s older, and she doesn’t think like that anymore.”

The Dama took a short scroll from the bookshelf and spread it out on another table. “You don’t give my students enough credit, Warner,” she chided.

“Don’t think anything of it,” he returned, and turned to his colleague with a self-aware smile. “Every year I think they’ll finally start to realize that Summoning is not about being better than each other, but we see the same stale competitive attitudes over and over.”

Sohma shook her head. “They just have to gain a little maturity. Then it all clears up.”

There was a pause. Then, Sohma pointed to something on the paper in front of her. “I’ve chosen the Dianic Pilgrimage for Brin,” she said.

“Dianic?” Warner repeated. “You’re really trying to make this little girl into your legacy, aren’t you?”

“It’s not like that,” she defended. Now there was a little hardness to her tone. “I work hard to choose the best journey structure for each student. You didn’t make a fuss when I sent Raika and Luti duo-Reddic, and it’s not like we get one of those every day, either.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” said Warner. “You ought to stop being so sensitive. That’s what makes it so hard to quit ribbing you.”

Sohma sniffed. Then, her business finished, she turned to leave the room; she was almost out the door when he spoke up again.

"I'm taking over with Simran now," Warner said unceremoniously. Sohma turned sharply.

                "Why?" she demanded, lacking his casualness.

 "With Brin leaving, I'll have more time than ever. She's always studied under me, and I don't--"

"Because you coddle her, Sohma. You know you do." The playfulness had left his expression. He stood before her now speaking the unedited truth. Warner's long mouth was set into a flat line across his narrow, angular face. "She's not going to benefit from somebody who keeps on treating her like a helpless little blind girl. She needs an honest assessment of her skill level--which, I don't have to tell you, is very high."

He paused for her to reply, but Sohma said nothing. Her heavy eyebrows pulled in slightly, her eyes narrowed. Then, after a few moments, Warner went on.

"Her jealous problem wasn't just hers, you know. She always knew you gave Brin more advanced work and stuck her with things that were 'safe.' I'm glad she was able to deal with those feelings, but you need to accept responsibility for what you did to that child."

Again, nothing--but only because she was too smart to expect to reasonably defend herself. In Sohma's head, a million thoughts raced past each other, just barely contained by practiced self-control. What was I supposed do to? she demanded. Simran was frail. She couldn't handle group exercises. That was the reason she had to be taken aside for individual tutoring to begin with. Her thin, peach-yellow skin, her colorless silver eyes that struggled to see under pale orange eyebrows--she needed to be protected. Didn't she?

A memory surfaced suddenly like a scene from a long-forgotten dream. Simran was nine years old, her hair cropped close to her head, revealing a scalp that was nearly pure-white. She sat in a fat upholstered chair in the third-floor hall, the size of which made her small body look like a doll's. "Dama," the child pleaded. "You can't keep me doing bookwork forever. The other level-twos are doing mana manipulation already."

"I know what I'm doing," Sohma assured her. "Mana manipulation requires a lot of spatial thinking, and I just don't know if you're there yet. Give it another year and ask me again."

"I can see just fine," Simran returned. There was a sense of urgency in her voice now. "I can use my magic to fill in where my eyes don't work. I'm a lot better than I was when I first came here. Please," she repeated.

Warner had raised one eyebrow slightly, as if to ask her to take a good, long look at herself. As she did just that, Sohma's face fell.

"Five years ago," her colleague said, "You told me you didn't think she could survive the pilgrimage. Now look at her. She's a lot stronger than you give her credit for."

"I know," Sohma replied. “It’s just taken me a long time to see it.”

She was resigned. There was nothing left to say. "She'll do great with you, Warner," Sohma said, and attempted a smile. "Keep me updated, okay?"

                "Of course," he replied, and his good-natured grin flashed a few narrow white teeth. "Don't beat yourself up, Sohma. Nobody's perfect."

Her eyes were lowered. She didn't look up. "I know," she said.

Everything was ready. Brin sat on the stone steps under the tall stained-glass window at the front of the building, a small bag strapped to her back. She would have a little bit of money to start off, and a map of the East Continent, but that was all. She wore a high-collared blouse with three-quarter sleeves, a decorative silver clasp at the neck. Her skirt was white muslin, knee-length, thin and unlined. The pilgrim's wardrobe was meant to be simple--it symbolized a detachment from material things while one learned to understand the world from a holistic perspective. The lack of supplies was in the same spirit. She would have to get by on her cunning, or else rely on the kindness of strangers.

Simran stood by her side as she waited, her face and neck wrapped securely in a wide, dark cloth. She held a hand above her eyes to shield them from the afternoon sun. "It's okay to be nervous," she told her friend. "You don't know what to expect until you get out there. But everything will be fine. If something goes really wrong, somebody will come to help you."

"I'm not nervous," said Brin. And it was clear from her body language that she was telling the truth--she sat casually, arms folded in her lap, unable to suppress an excited grin. "I've never travelled before. I don't even know what it's like out there."

"I really liked it," Simran replied. "I mean, my pilgrimage was different from yours, but there should be a little bit of overlap. Shouldn't have to spend as much time on the Sea Islands as I did," she said, laughing a bit. "That's where Walpurga was supposed to have received her first vision of the Cosmic Plane. I spent hours in those caves trying to tap into that energy."

"Hmm." Brin nodded. Every pilgrimage undertaken by a Summoner followed a route designed after the personal journey of a famous magician. The magician assigned to the pilgrim was selected by the Dams and Damas based on shared aptitudes. Simran, aside from an apprent knack for elemental magic, was given to prophetic dreams--so Dama Sohma sent her on the Walpurgic Pilgrimage, following the path of the most famous oracle in the history of the conservatory. As far as she could tell, it seemed to fit, and Simran had benefitted greatly from the experience.

Her case was different. Brin was following the Dianic Pilgrimage--which started in a fishing village on the east side of the continent, the place of Diana's birth, and then spread across islands and landmasses before ending up in Salberid City again. Even after years of study, Brin wasn't sure what her aptitudes were--she had an affinity for nature magic, but seemed as equally suited for it for anything else. Dama's choice of pilgrimage did nothing to shed light on the situation.

 Deva Conservatory was heavily interested in its own history; most of the pilgrimages referenced the founders or other famous alumi. But there were a handful, as in Diana's case, who had never been associated with the Conservatory at all. They were figures of legend who had long been lost to the material world.

People said that Diana was the first person to use magic. She was born thousands of years before to a small band who foraged near the coast, in a time before people had settled down to form the village that there now stood. Primary sources were scant; Diana did not learn to write until well into middle age. Most of the information about her life came from her memoirs, many pages of which were lost to time, and scattered accounts from people who came in contact with her.

Diana's own writing stated that magic was introduced to her by the Sky God as a positive force to counteract the war and social disharmony that dominated her era. She was born looking like her parents, but at the age of five, a sudden influx of mana into her body caused her hair to turn snow-white. That was her biggest identifying trait--that and her public name, which she changed from the name her mother gave her when she left the coast. It was a reference to a legend even older than her own; the Sky God's first child was named Diana, and the egg from which she hatched was left to form the Small Moon. Diana often related that she felt most connected to the Cosmic Plane when the Small Moon was full.

She was a widely-known figure, even in the far reaches of the Marsh. In the native mythology, Diana was seen as the living incarnation of her divine namesake, and was respected both for her work and her status as a sibling of Siragthan. The Marsh even had a tradition which in Salberid would be called a "Dianic holiday"--a special event in the height of summer, held only when the Large and Small Moons were full at the same time.

As much as she thought about it, Brin couldn't find a relevant connection between herself and the mythical sorceress. Brin's specialty field had always been water and nature magic; Diana's magic took a more broad cosmic form, and she was famous for her strong psychic link to the Sky God. If anything, Brin thought, Simran should have been the one to follow Diana's pilgrimage.

But Brin and Dama Sohma rarely operated on the same logic. Slowly, her reflectiveness began to leak through to her face. Time and again, these little things came up--little variations in curriculum that seemed to mark Brin as "special" and the others "common." The fact that she was picked for the Conservatory by a dream was of mild note--but she was not the first Summoner who had been chosen in such a way, and even then, displayed no special abilities that would have corroborated delusions of grandeur. Hereditary magical talents were not uncommon--some bloodlines had special traits that allowed members to manipulate mana in a unique way. Although it was not strictly defined, Simran's affinity for prophesy had a high incidence in members of her mother's family. Then there was Brin, who--despite having an early exposure to magic that made her a fast learner--was, after everything, a common girl. It was only other people's beliefs that had ever made her anything different.

"Hey, don't get all mopey on me, now," she heard suddenly, and raised her head. Simran was smiling at her. "Buck up. You've got to get going," she said, and nudged Brin's shoulder with one hand. In front of them on the street was the car meant to take her out of the city, the large beast in front pawing idly at the ground as it waited.

Brin stood up and rushed from the steps. "I have to go now," she added for her friend, but that much was obvious. When she reached the door of the carriage car, she turned back. "You'll write to me, won't you?" she asked Simran.

                The woman grinned under her dark hood. "I'll have a letter waiting for you at every stop," she said. "How about that."

The little one nodded. Then, sensitive to the driver's impatience, she entered the car and sat down. They were off almost at once.

For most of the journey, there was enough daylight to read. It entered the almost-flimsy compartment of the carriage through an uncovered square window, and brought with it humidity, bugs, and a light breeze. Brin didn't mind it, nor did she pay much attention to the steady jostling of the vehicle on the uneven ground. For one, she had grown up in a swamp--moisture and bugs didn't bother her. But more than that, it was still early enough that the novelty of the whole situation kept her from complaining.

In her lap she held open a small paper-back book that Dama Sohma had lent to her. It was a manual on the plants and animals of the coastal region, with occasional reference to the people who lived there. She read casually, but was careful to study the key shapes of the items depicted in the numerous illustrations. Heart-shaped leaves on short stems were food for wild pigs--safe to eat in a pinch. Roundish leaves on tree-dwellng vines were either a potent medicine or a deadly poison, depending on how much you consumed and in what preparation.

Brin wondered what they would have for her to do when she arrived in the village--would it be related to medicine? Would it be interpersonal? There were stories of Summoners sent to visit remote areas, then asked to use their magic to take control of disputed territory, or to disrupt outside encroachment into a particular community. Some magicians objected in principle, but nothing in the rules of the pilgrimage specifically forbade the foster-communities from making the requests. As the day wore on, and long green grazing fields stretched out alongside the carriage, Brin wondered if there should have been more strict regulation. It was decidedly against the Sky God's spirit of peaceful conflict resolution to use a divine force to advance a personal agenda. But then, nothing that came out of Salberid City really kept to its original spirit. It was used by people in whichever ways they found most personally convenient.

In the late afternoon, when the sun was just beginning to glow its twilight orange, the carriage-beast stopped. For a moment or so, Brin waited--then, after a minute had passed, she knocked on the front of the carriage to get the driver's attention.

"Is everything okay, sir?" the girl asked. "Do you need any help?"

"Fine," said the man. "This's your stop. Time to get off."

Her stop? Brin looked out of the right-side window. Far behind them, the city was no longer visible; directly in front stood a small wooden way-station, in front of which stood a round-faced woman with long black hair. Brin accidentally caught her eyes, and saw the woman grin in recognition. The girl smiled back, but it was only to be polite.

                "You're supposed to take me all the way to Rainrock, aren't you?" she questioned, turning her attention back to the driver. A crumb of worry crept into her green eyes.

“Just to the waystation,” the driver replied. “That’s all I was paid for. Sorry for the inconvenience, but you’ll have to get off now.”

“Oh,” said Brin.

She gathered her books, opened the small door and stepped down from the car. Before she had time to turn around, the carriage-driver brought the leading animal around in a pinched circle, and the two were on their way. What was left was Brin, the strange woman, and the slowly-settling wheel dust in the afternoon heat.

"My name is My Ho," said the woman, and Brin looked at her. She was smiling pleasantly; she seemed safe. "I guess they didn't tell you," the stranger continued, seeming to find a bit of humor in the situation. "I'm supposed to take you to the coast. The road from here to Rainrock is dicey this time of year, and from there out the roads disappear completely."

                "Oh," said Brin, but nothing else.

                "You're Brin, aren't you?" My Ho asked. That smile again--raising just one corner of the top lip to show a few short, flat teeth. "Listen, it's not so bad. All that walking builds character."

Brin interjected. "No, I'm not upset," she said. "But I mean--it's too late to start walking anywhere now."

"Only if you're afraid of the dark." The statement was almost a challenge. My Ho took a few steps away from the shack, turned toward the road. "Come on--it's only going to get later if we wait. The next town's less than an hour away, and I'd much rather spend the night there than there."

Accordingly, Brin took a look at the rickety waystation. In some places, it seemed to be more twig than board. The inside was almost certainly drafty, damp and covered with spiderwebs. She frowned at the building. "That's a good idea," Brin agreed.

So they were off. It didn't take long for Brin to become comfortable with My Ho. When she noticed the girl didn't have much to say, she passed the time by talking about herself. She had been born in the village, My Ho said, and her family still lived there. She had a job in Rainrock translating between Marioc and her native language, and it was through this channel that she was contacted by the Conservatory. "If you want to learn about Diana, there's no better place to start," she said. "We don't keep a lot of records at home, but you can learn a lot just by talking to people, you know?"

                Brin nodded her understanding.

On the last leg of the trip, when the cluster of small gold window-lights had come into view on the darkened horizon, Brin told her companion about her family. In common with the coastal village, the Marsh children learned how to fish at a young age, and had a basic knowledge of the plant life surrounding their territory. They talked about the differences between home and city life, and the experience of being a village-dweller living among people who had only ever known their urban cocoon. That, to Brin, was comforting in itself. It'd been a long time since she'd thought about her own homesickness.

"Alright, there's the place," My Ho said finally, stopping in the middle of the lightly-paved street. They were standing near the middle of the short stretch of buildings which somehow dared to call itself a town. The building My Ho pointed to was made of stone, three stories, two lit by flickering candlelight and the topmost dark. The sounds of a contented crowd could be heard from inside. "Golden Mudfish," Brin read from the sign nailed above the door, weathered wood inscribed with still-dark blackletter. "Is it a restaurant?" she asked. Mudfish in her experience could be either animal or food, but seemed like a strange mascot for a place where people slept.

                "Restaurant, inn, all that," said My Ho. "I set up a reservation for us when I was coming through the first time. Come on--it comes with dinner included."

                My Ho headed toward the place, and Brin followed quickly. With all the talking, she hadn't noticed her body slowly becoming weak and shaky. Could it be possible that the Golden Mudfish really served dishes made of its namesake? Brin found herself excited by the faint possibility. She had not tasted mudfish since the last time she'd been home.

                The inside of the restaurant was warm and welcoming, the heat from the oil lanterns on the tables mixed with the warmth of living bodies. Brin felt her face break into a soft smile of relief. It was good to be inside again, where the frail barrier of her cotton clothing wasn't the only thing standing between her and the chilly night air. Around them, at fat wooden tables, people of various sizes, shapes and colors chatted casually over plates of savory-looking food.

"Wait here a minute," My Ho told her, and as she walked off placed a hand on the girl's shoulder to reinforce the sentiment. Brin obliged, leaning her small shoulders against the front wall as she watched. My Ho walked up to the counter, and directly struck up a conversation with the woman working there. Across the short distance, Brin's astute ears picked up their words easily.

"I'm back for my room," the guide said. Her tone was familiar. "Two women, just like I said." She gestured to Brin.

The woman, for her part, stayed distant. "I can't say I understand what you're getting at," she said. "You're coming BACK for a room?"

"I made a reservation yesterday," My Ho pressed. She leaned forward now, resting her forearm on the counter. An aggressive posture, Brin noted, and tensed slightly.

                "We haven't done reservations as long as I'VE been here," returned the barmaid, flicking a bit of greasy brown hair from her face. "And I opened the place, so I'd know."

My Ho's good nature was gone. Indignant, she kept on the issue. "Well, I spoke to SOMEBODY," she insisted.

                Brin turned her head a bit to get a better view. The barmaid looked exasperated. She had probably been working all day, she thought. She wondered how much reasoning there would be with him.

                When she spoke again, he wasn't addressing My Ho, but somebody who seemed to be beyond the narrow doorway that led into the kitchen. "Wulan," the barmaid said, raising her voice slightly. "Come talk to this lady and tell her we don't take reservations."

Almost before he finished talking, there came a reply in a woman's high, urgent voice. "I'm coming, I'm coming," she said. "I'll take care of it."

The next moment she was there, rushing to where the short lady stood behind the counter. She caught Brin's attention immediately. Long, spring-green hair, smooth verdant skin, leaf-shaped ears--it explained the name, of the woman and the inn both, perfectly. Wulan was from the Marsh.                 "I'm so sorry," said the Marsh woman. She was smiling, but her face was ruddy. "I was the one you talked to. I wanted to come through for you, but we can't hold rooms when a big group comes in like we had today." She looked out toward the room, and Brin saw My Ho look as well. A few tables were filled exclusively by stocky, brown-skinned people in heavy outerclothes. "They're coming through from the mountains," Wulan explained. "There's a whole mess more of them already upstairs."

From where she stood, it seemed that My Ho's posture relaxed. Brin thought it must have been harder to be angry at the small, fay-like woman, who seemed genuinely sorry for the inconvenience. She was taller than her co-worker, but much more delicate, and more pleasant by miles. Her hair was dark sea green, arranged in one long braid down her back, frayed just slightly at the hairline and ears from a hard day's work.

"That's okay," said My Ho, her manners returning, although she was visibly disappointed. "I just don't know what I'm going to do with this kid now. If it were just me I could camp out in the bushes, but I'm responsible for somebody tonight, you know?"

"My goodness, is that little girl with you?" Wulan asked. She seemed to raise herself slightly on the balls of her feet, looking past the customer to where Brin stood by the door. The girl noticed the onlooker quickly and met her eyes.

Wulan smiled brightly. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to stare. It's just--you're a long way from home, aren't you?"

"A little bit," Brin managed. Then, needing no invitation, she stepped up to the counter next to My Ho.

                "What's your name, baby?" the barmaid asked. "Here, I'll get you something to drink." She pulled a glass from under the bar.

                "Sachko," said Brin.

"Oh, that's River, isn't it?" Wulan replied. "Mine's Tana; that's Cliffs. I want to say I have a cousin or two down by the river, though. I've been away so long, it's hard to tell anymore." She laughed, filling the glass with carbonated water from a silver tap. Then she set the glass down on the counter. "Here," said the woman. "They say the bubbles are good for you. It's mostly what people drink around here."

"That and hard liquor," the dark-haired woman piped up. Wulan let out a sudden burst of laughter.

                "That too," she told the guests. "This is my wife, Rin," Wulan said, placing a hand on the woman's shoulder. "You'll excuse her for being a bit gruff. One of us has to be, or else we'd get walked all over."

Brin leaned forward to rest on the high counter, which was chest-height for her small frame. Though it was worrisome not to know where you were going to sleep, for that brief moment, the company of the people around her pushed the though from her mind. Who could have guessed that she would come all the way out to this part of the Plains just to walk into a Marsh woman's tavern?         "There are stools over there, you know," Rin suggested. There was still an edge to her voice, but Brin could tell she was warming up. Brin and My Ho moved around the corner of the bar where the seats were set up, the girl with her glass in hand.

In the middle of the floor, the brown-skinned people still mingled cheerily. When their noise started to pick up, Rin was the first one to respond.

"Aye, need some drinks over there, gentlemen?" she called over the crowd. This was met with a mild uproar. Brin saw a kind of familiar grin flash across Rin's face.

"I'll take care of them," she said to Wulan, filling several large glasses with thick honey beer. "You keep our special guests company, okay?"

While the short woman served the room, My Ho made light conversation with the Marsh woman, asking about fish and other things they might have had in common. Brin interjected easily when she had something to say. The mild anxiety from earlier had disappeared completely. She was existing in the moment, surrounded by sensations, feeling utterly content and prepared for whatever waited for her in the future. Hopefully, a small voice in the back of her mind said, that would include a warm place to bed down.

"The name was my idea," Wulan told them, "as you can probably guess. Rin's from Eastwinn--not many mudfish out there."

                "It's the 'golden' part that's funny about it," said My Ho.

"It's from a fairy tale!" Brin explained. "At the very end of the season, a man goes out fishing, and by chance he catches a golden mudfish. The fish begs to be let go, and tells the man that if he's spared, he'll shower him with riches once the spring comes."

"The mudfish bury themselves in the river bottom all winter," Wulan interjected, and My Ho nodded her understanding.

                "Anyway," continued the girl, "the man thinks it over, but ultimately he decides that he wants the mudfish for his dinner. So he kills him and takes him home. But when he tries to cook the flesh, it crumbles like ash in the pan."

"God," the guide said with a kernel of awe. "So he finds this magical fish and walks away with nothing?"

"That's how it goes," said Wulan. "It's a story about the value of waiting for future rewards. Pretty effective, I think."

"Is it true?"

Wulan laughed. "I don't know," she answered. "If it is, it happened a long time ago. That story has been in the Marsh since my grandmother was little--probably longer. What do you think, baby? You ever seen a golden mudfish?"

Brin shook her head no. "Not me," she said. "But I heard of a woman who was bit by a golden mamba. They said it was an avatar of Siragthan."

"I know that story," said Wulan. "But you can't hardly trust anything that comes out of the Lake, you know?"

                Brin nodded. My Ho, who did not seem to understand, didn't ask any questions.

"Well, listen," said Wulan. "You only need to stay one night, right? I can't offer you much, but Rin and I have a room here at the inn, and I can make you a pallet on the floor if you'd like. Might be a little better than sleeping outside, anyhow."

"Not to mention much safer," My Ho added.

"I don't want to explain to Deva how a Summoner got killed on my watch." She shoved Brin lightly.

Out on the floor, Rin moved drained glasses to empty tables, taking small breaks to straighten up the uninhabited parts of the room. The mountain people who were left were a small, wizened woman with a cloth over her head, a middle-aged but attractive lady who appeared to be her daughter, and a short but broad man with a heavy brow and a thick black beard. All of them drank beer with practiced skill.

                "I tell you, t'weren't nothin' like that before all these cities sprang up," the old woman said to her companions. Her Marioc was flavored with an accident Brin did not quite recognize. She noted, however, the contempt with which the crone spoke the word 'cities.' "It's muckin' up the natural order," she continued.

"Oh, go on, Yuya," the younger woman replied. "You think everything is a spirit or some kind of ghostey. You don't think it's possible that what you saw was just a wolf?"

"Wolf," Yuya spat in response. "Ain't no wolf that's as tall as a man," she said. "I know what I see when I see it."

"You two have been quabbling all night," said the man. "And here I thought a few drinks would loosen ya up. Everything's fine now, so just focus on not making the rest of the trip miserable, hey?" he suggested. Then, cracking a big grin, he brought a near-empty glass down hard on the table. A few drops of foamy gold liquid splattered the table.

"Waitress," the man said, turning to Rin. "You all got anything stronger'n this? These old biddies is still yapping."

"Got some bleach for cleanin' the floors," Rin retorted, the most subtle venom in her voice. The bearded man picked up on her tone and backed off.

"What are they talking about?" Brin asked her own conversation partners.

"Something the old lady saw on the way from Deadtree," said Wulan, speaking just a bit more softly. Brin noticed this and followed suit--it occurred to her that it might be rude if the guests heard her talking about them.

"She's been bringing it up all night. That's the only reason the fella is so fed up with it. He was much more relaxed earlier."

"You think there's anything to it?" My Ho chimed in.

"Don't know," said the barmaid. "In a place like this, people are always coming in with one tall tale or another. It's possible she heard about a giant beast in a roadhouse bar somewhere and just forgot where she learned about it. But then... stranger things have happened in this world.”

The Mountain people went up to their rooms around midnight. Brin and My Ho lingered at the bar and drank mineral water while Rin and Wulan closed up shop. When the dining area was clean, the bar wiped and all the dishes in the sink, Rin put out all the lights and the four of them exited the main part of the building through a narrow corridor under the staircase.

The passage led to a small square bedroom, softly lit by the light of the gas lamps on the street outside. The group paused for a few moments in the doorway while Rin fumbled for a match.

                "Damn," she cursed, scratching a match head uselessly against the rough wooden wall. "I can't get this thing to--"

"I'll get it," Brin said softly. In the shadow of the corridor, she brought her hands up to the level of her waist, turned ninety degrees, palms out. A practiced positioning of the fingers--the force of the heat bubbling up in her blood stung her veins. A split second--a spark. Flash of white. There. An oil lamp on the end table glowed brightly now, casting a sphere of light that covered the room.

                "My Lord," said the short woman. She had a big smile on her face. "I've never seen magic before. That's incredible, little bit."

Brin smiled back.

Wulan got to work on the guest-bed directly. There was a narrow closet door on one wall, from which she gathered a thick pile of blankets and comforters. "They're a little musty, but they'll do for a night," she said to the guests. "Baby, come help me lay these out, will you?"

                Before Brin could respond to the call, Rin was walking toward her in the empty spot on the floor. Noting this, the girl stayed put.

The finished pallet was the size of a double bed, and about two inches thick on the bottom layer. Brin thought it was more than adequate. "Thank you so much," the girl said to Wulan, who was stripping off her work clothes to reveal plain cotton undergarments.

"It's not a problem, sweetheart," the lady replied. "I'm not embarrassing you, am I?"

"Not at all," Brin said.

"Glad that's settled," My Ho interjected. "If it's not a problem, I don't wanna keep this thing on all night," she said, and slipped her canvas shirt off over her head.

The women settled into bed, and Rin put out the lamp. "It's okay to wake me up if you need anything," the woman said, and laid down at last. "Thank you," said the girl, following suit.

The cool darkness settled in around them. The pallet lay in the cast shadow of the lower part of the wall, which left the light from the streetlamps to fall on the other side of the room. Brin buried her face in the blankets and focused on slowing her breathing, comforted by the steady sounds of the ladies sleeping peacefully around her. Before she realized, she was sound asleep.

The sun was shining brightly in her eyes. Too brightly. She could feel the warmth of it on her skin, and it warmed her to the point of blistering. Brin sat up on the woven straw mat. She was bare-chested, her legs wrapped in the skirt her grandmother had made for her. On a cord around her neck there hung the thin, pointed claw of an animal. Or was it a tooth? She raised an airy-light hand to examine it, but when her fingers touched it it cut open her skin like a hot knife, and a steady flow of red blood ran thick but painlessly over her skin.

"I'm sorry," she heard herself say. Was her mouth moving? She couldn't tell. Whose voice was that? "I didn't mean to do it."

Someone replied. "I know you didn't," Mama said. "It's okay. Come on."

She appeared in front of her like a phantom. Brin reached out her bloodied hand, and mama took it in hers. She stood, very slowly, as if she were underwater.

"Sometimes you can get hurt even if something isn't your fault," Mama explained. "And that's why we need helpers in the world. To solve the big problems for the good of everybody."

                "Who are the helpers?" Brin asked.

“You have to figure that out,” Mama replied. Her hands, which she held behind her back, began to crumble into sand. It piled on the ground between them, burying her feet. From somewhere far away, the cry o