And new omake. I finished it before going to bed after all:
Hidden magic part 3
Memory of Rhoynar
Mother Ysilla had come to feel everyone of her sixty seven years in her bones particularly when the weather on the Greenblood turned stormy. So even though she was otherwise as sure-footed in the boat as she had been in her youth she went bellow, so as not to get in people's way, when she saw the storm approaching. Summer storms were not typically dangerous to river traffic unless they caught a boat on a particularly bad patch of water so she thought nothing more of it until the boat shook violently and then stopped completely. She could recognize that well enough, it was something no riverman or riverwoman wanted to feel, they had ran aground.
After getting back on deck she saw that they had hit a submerged log close to the bank and then her eldest son, Willas, the boat's captain had aimed for the to avoid sinking. To make things worse one of the spice cases dad broken spilling its contents, more precious than gold, into the cargo hold. Well they had endured worse loss, granted not well so there was nothing more to do than get to fixing it.
First they had to remove some of the more fragile objects form the boat, Ysilla personally handling her books on Rhoynish History and other priceless heirlooms form the Old Country. Some of the ones with more practical use could very react badly indeed to improper handling she thought as her fingers caressed a blue-green ritual boll dedicated to Mother Rhoyne. Finding no cracks she sighed in relief. This was among the most rare of magical artifacts, one that empowered healing concoctions or even simple water depending on how much of her life the mage was willing to sacrifice. She then checked the Turtle's Shield no harm there, of course. Legend had it that it could shed Dragonfire though she had her doubts. After all Rhoynar had lost the Last War against the Freehold. Last of all she checked the Flint Blade. Out of all of them this served the darkest purpose. It was an instrument of Blood Magic, not Blood Magic as the Valyrians practiced it killing tens of thousands, no. This instrument made from flint found at the source of the Mother River itself was an instrument of self-sacrifice to empower one desperate act of magic at great need, or so the story went. The priestess rather doubted that as for all her sincere faith in her Goddess she was considerably less sure of the purity of spirit of some of her predecessors. There had been some suspicious bouts of good luck in the family's past which did not correspond with the death of a priestess.
Having finished this task including the removal of more mundane but no less vital "treasures" such as cooking wares all the able bodied crew, not including Ysilla though she argued quite a bit about it, pulled the boat fully on to shore.
Fortunately the storm had knocked over some trees and fallen trees could, by law and custom both, be claimed for firewood or other desperate need as long as the local lord was repaid in a timely manner. So the men began the long laborious process of cutting planks with which to patch the hull under the direction of the boat's carpenter.
***
Two days later the crew's labor was interrupted by the sound of a hunting horn.
A misfortune never comes alone. Ysilla thought quoting an old Rhoynish proverb to herself. Sure enough the hunt must have spotted them as it changed direction to head towards them.
Not like there's much cover the old woman thought resignedly. Beyond the wooded riverbank the tallest plants were thorny shrubs.
A few moments later the riders reached them. At their head a brightly dressed fellow with unusually pale skin for a Dornishman reddened by the sun. He spoke:
"I am ser Cletus Yronwood and these are my family's lands. Are you responsible for the felling of these trees?"
"No milord, they were felled by the storm that forced us aground" Willas said in his best imitation of one of the Drylander Smallfolk
The lord opened his mouth to answer likely to claim restitution there and then most likely all the rest of their trade goods as he looked to be in a foul mood due to lack of luck at the hunt. Seeing that the old woman touched the last of the treasures given into her keeping, the Tear of Mother Rhoyne, a clear gem that when combined with certain patterns of thought could bend the minds of men. So she gently nudged him into feeling more magnanimous, after all they were but poor rivermen without even land to call their own. Ysilla smiled inwardly when her son used that very argument.
As if we would want any such thing, Orphans we might be but we will never build our own prison and take pride in it.
In the end the price was painful but bearable. As she was getting ready to turn in for the night her grand-nice Lysa, whom she was grooming to be her successor accosted her:
"I saw what you did Mother. Why did you not make it so that he would leave us in pace without demanding recompense at all? We are hard pressed enough as it is." she asked trying to be respectful but not quite managing to keep the pendulant tone out of her voice.
"Because child the treasures of the Goddess are ours to keep not to use. Would you have us make a crutch of magic? Forget how to use herbs to heal because we have the boll, concern ourselves no more with trading because we have the Tear." She did not mention the sacrificial blade and her suspicions as to how it had been used before as she did not want to disillusion the girl too much "If I had done more others besides yourself would have noticed. It would debase the Mother's relics and lessen our people both. The time of magic has passed and every year it grows weaker."
So did Ysilla give advice that had been given time and time again from one priestess to the next. However now for the first time since the death of the last Dragon that last partwas untrue. The time of great magic was returning, when sorcerers could sit as equal to nobles would come and in her time as priestess and relic keeper Lysa would face choises much more difficult than the one which she witnessed this day.
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