Firebrand

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley, but there have always been mages. Kids like mine, who didn’t talk until they were almost school age, who wouldn’t look their own mother in the eye, who played in befuddling ways.

Mine lines up twigs in order of size and color, even when they all look the same shade of gray to me. I swear that kid sees things my eyes could never. But that’s how it goes, with mages.

I’m not a mage. No one knows exactly what genetic combination creates one, but neither Cora’s ma nor I know of any in our bloodlines. And we don’t know that Cora is a mage, exactly. Avia keeps wanting to take her to the doctor, get her an official screening before she starts school, get her on the mage track.

But something in me says no. Let the kid be herself, just a little while longer.

So what if she starts an accidental fire or two, or breaks some family heirlooms? So what if I’m pretty sure I stumbled into a makeshift, sloppy curse net cast over our front gate last week? It disappeared pretty quick, didn’t it? Who’s to say it was hers, anyway?

In the Before Times, before the Treaty, before our village played host to the country’s only dragon prison, there wasn’t much call for mages, to say the least. In the Before Times, people spoke about mages in whispers. They took their kids to the doctor and begged and prayed for any other result.

There was some speculation about what caused a kid to be a mage - poor mothering was a popular one, or a diet without enough meat. When word got out about a mageling, folks went out of their way to be kind and sympathetic to the parents at first, but soon just went out of their way.

You have to be born a mage. It’s not catching. But people acted like it was.

But then came the Shackling, and the foundry-turned-dragon-prison, and Petr Jumin, the first mage to get involved with the whole endeavor. Petr cast a curse net over the foundry door and adjusted it so that humans could pass through, but not dragons. The Treaty signers were enthralled - would’ve made him king, if we had kings. Little magelings still learn his name in their lesson rhymes.

Petr the mage / the great of his age /

who showed us the way / all mages could play /

a valuable part / bright, focused and smart. /

Neither dull, dim nor dense / he built that first fence. /

Now danger’s at bay / and dragons obey!

Petr who showed the world that mages could be useful. Could be independent and prosperous. Could free themselves from the burden of being a burden. Petr who stopped the unspoken killings of little magelings, their parents crippled with shame.

After Petr, the Treaty signers sought out families with known mages in their lines. They started the mage school, where the little ones learned discipline and obedience, and, under careful non-mage supervision, learned from older mages how to shape and wield their magic.

Only about one in fifty children is born a mage. The school rarely has more than a few dozen kids at a time. But a positive mage screening comes with a level of support Cora’s shunned ancestors couldn’t have imagined. Mages and their families get to live in a neat row of stone houses on the same street as the school. Free meals in a common dining room on the school campus. Concerts, lectures, art - it’s all there. A good life.

No wonder Avia wants the screening. I can’t really blame her.

But Avia doesn’t see what I see. I may just be the one who scrubs the floors and carts the dragon dung from their stalls, but I’ve worked with mages for years. Mages only ever go to work in the foundry. They work exclusively in security and enforcement, their powers used only to contain, subdue, and coerce.

Of course, all of their designs must be tested. Once a month, they draw some lottery and drag one unlucky dragon into the curse net at each entrance, just to prove it still works. I think it’s also a reminder. But those screams haunt me enough.

I don’t want that for Cora. It won’t be easy, hiding her ways and her gifts. But there’s got to be something better for magic to do than this.