Matyas sat by the iron gates half the morning before the big doors swung open and four men stepped into the sun. They were young—younger than Matyas’ father, at least. They all wore striped robes over white pants and plain sandals. One of them carried a staff with a jewel on top, like the one the Master had at the Hungry Squirrel. This staff was fancier, carved into a spiral, the yellow stone on top as big as a fist.
Matyas couldn’t hear what they were saying and didn’t much care. It angered him that they didn’t appear to notice him standing just a few feet away. “Please, sirs,” he said.
They all turned toward him. The tallest, a man with a high forehead and sandy hair and thin lips, said, “Who are you?”
“My name is Matyas. Sir.”
“What do you want, Matyas-sir?”
To knock you down and walk on you. He said, “I want to go to your school.”
A couple of them laughed but the tallest one said, “Go inside our school? For what? Whatever you are selling we don’t need.”
“I want to become a wizard.”
The man’s mouth gaped, then he and his friends burst out laughing. One of the others said, “Go home, boy. We have enough wizards, I’m afraid.” Another said, “Did Johannan send you? Fat man with a skinny beard? Told you to come here and say that to us?” The tall one added, “We do not appreciate beggars making fun of us.”
“I’m not making fun,” Matyas said.
“Then leave.”
“I want to learn how to fly.” They burst out laughing once again. Matyas wanted to tear off their elegant robes and knock them down in the dirt. Instead he called out, “Come around me! Right now.”
Lights appeared in the air, a scattering of fireflies that hovered around Matyas then vanished within seconds. The man with the spiral staff first looked startled when the lights appeared, but then he rested his stick in the crook of his elbow and clapped his hands in a large sweeping gesture. “Bravo. A true display of power.” And then, “I have no idea who sent you with whatever glamour to summon a flicker of the Splendor, but I suggest you run back and tell him his joke was not very funny.”
Matyas didn’t know what to do. Beg? See if he could get inside the gate and hide? Tell them about the Kallistocha, the prophecy that he would fly? They probably would just laugh again. He was pretty sure he could get at least one of the men on the ground and kick him senseless before the others figured out how to pull him off. But suppose they conjured up a demon to eat him?
They had lost interest in him and were about to walk past—and Matyas was about to get down on his knees—when a dry, precise voice called down from above, “I will take him.”
In one motion, the four all turned and stared up at the top of the tower. Matyas could make out a small figure in the single window. The man with the staff said, “Veil?”
“Yes, Lukhanan. You have identified me correctly. Your studies are progressing. Now, if you can keep the boy entertained long enough for me to come and get him, he can begin to work for me.”
“But Mistress,” Lukhanan said, and he appeared genuinely confused, “he’s filthy. He’ll steal everything the moment you go to sleep.”
“Then I will have to stay awake. I will think of you, Lukhanan, and laughter will drive away drowsiness. Now hold him for me.”
Matyas’ mind jammed with thoughts. A woman. What could a woman teach him? He called her “Mistress.” That’s like a Master. But maybe she’s a demon. When the gate swung open again, there was neither demon nor powerful sorceress, only a woman a little taller than Matyas himself. Her face was sharp and finely lined, with a wide mouth and narrow nose, eyes that looked very alert inside wrinkles, and gray hair pulled tightly back and held with a silver clasp. She wore a long, straight dress, as severe as a shroud, brown with gold and silver threads.
She looked at Matyas for what felt like a very long time, while he squirmed but managed not to look away. Finally, she turned to Lukhanan and said, “There. You see?” as if she’d won some contest.
Lukhanan rolled his eyes. “Look at him. He can’t even read.”
Veil turned back to Matyas. “What is your name?”
“Matyas.” He almost said “Master” but stopped himself.
“Can you read, Matyas?”
“No, ma’am. Mistress.”
“Wonderful. Then you will not need to unlearn anything. Or at least not as much.” She turned and walked back through the gate, with Matyas running after her.
When they started up the narrow stone steps, Matyas said, “I dreamed of this tower.”
“Did you? And does it look the same?”
“Well, I only saw it from the outside.”
“Oh, from outside all towers look the same.”
Matyas soon found it hard to keep up with her. After only one flight, he began to breathe heavily; after a second, his shoulders sagged and he had to pull himself up by the plain wooden banister; after a third, his legs wobbled and he didn’t know if he could continue. Veil turned and looked at him as if to say, “Tired already? What use are you if you cannot even climb a few steps?” On the fourth flight, he thought for sure he would faint, and almost begged her to stop so he could catch his breath. No. He would not give her any excuse to send him away. Or laugh at him. With all his might, he managed to keep going. Finally they came to a low wooden door, unadorned, with a simple brass handle. Matyas almost wept when Veil opened it herself, for he had no strength left even to release a latch.
The moment they stepped inside, all Matyas’ energy returned. He could stand again, and breathe easily. Curious now, he looked around. If he’d expected to see demons in cages, or angels trapped in circles of candles, or maybe eagle feathers as souvenirs from flights above mountains, he had to settle for a simple room with wood walls, two plain, unpainted chairs and a small white rocker, a rough wood table, a small fireplace and books, books, books, some on shelves, some piled on the floor.
Wedged in among the books were various objects, like small bells and thin gold sticks, along with various boxes and pouches, small statues of people and animals, and for some reason a lumpy black stone in a corner. A little, red wooden box, plain and faded, looking as old as Veil herself, sat all alone on a low wooden table. And that was all there was. No other furniture, and certainly no wondrous creatures. Two alcoves extended from the main room, one with a plain iron stove and rough pots, the other with a narrow bed and a lidded white porcelain chamber pot, with a blue curtain for privacy. Without thinking, Matyas blurted, “It’s so ordinary.”
Veil smiled. “Is it now? Then tell me, young Matyas, why you found it so difficult to climb the stairs.”
Matyas stood up straight. “I didn’t have any trouble.”
“Oh? You looked in pain.”
“I just told you, I was fine.”
She laughed now. “Matyas, there was no shame in your weakness. I needed to test your talent and you have shown it. Remarkably so. Few practiced magicians could have made it even halfway up those stairs, let alone to the top.”
Matyas squinted at her. Was she making fun of him? “It was just some stairs,” he said.
“Look out of the window.”
He peered out. “It’s just the courtyard.”
“Look again.”
Shaking his head as if at a madwoman, Matyas took a step closer to the window. He saw blackness, deep night, though a moment earlier it had been sunny. As if from a vast distance swirls of gray emerged, shot through with sharp jewels of color. It all turned, arms spilled out, grew then dissipated like puffs of smoke, replaced immediately by fresh spirals. Matyas stared and stared. He could dive into it, swim in it—
Veil yanked on his arm. He growled at her, tried to fight her off, but she only held on tighter. He turned to tell her to leave him alone when suddenly he realized how off balance he was, that if she had let him go he would have plummeted right out through the window, down into—Now, when he looked again, there was only the courtyard below.
Veil said, “Stairs can be many things, sometimes even a genuine ladder, which is to say a passage to the higher realms. The first flight took you beyond the Moon, the second beyond Venus, the third past Mercury, the fourth the Sun, and the fifth, well, the fifth flight, young Matyas, carried you past the birthplace of stars. Only the very wise or the very foolish can survive such a journey.”
“Don’t call me a fool,” Matyas said.
Veil nodded. “I would not do that. But let me tell you a saying from an old friend of mine. It goes like this: The scholar hears of the Gate and tries to undo the lock. The student hears of the Gate and tries to squeeze between the bars. The fool hears of the Gate and laughs. Without laughter, the Gate would never open.”
“I’m not a fool,” Matyas said. He glanced nervously at the window.
“Oh, no need to worry,” Veil said. “While you stay here it will remain a dull tower leading to an old woman’s crowded retreat. As I said, I wanted to test your talent. I am satisfied.”
“Then teach me to fly.”
“Fly? Who told you a wizard can fly?”
Matyas was about to tell her of the voice, the prophecy and the man he’d seen move across the sky, but something stopped him. So he only said, “It’s why I came here.”
“Patience,” Veil said. “We will begin your lessons soon. Now I am tired and I would like my hair brushed.” She sat down facing away from him and held out a small brush of pig bristles set into polished horn. With her free hand, she removed the clasp and her hair tumbled down her back.
“I’m not . . .” he started to say, then watched his hand take the brush. It felt warm and almost weightless. He ran it through her hair in long strokes, first jerkily, with anger, but soon smooth and rhythmically. He had no idea how long he’d been doing it when Veil murmured, “Thank you, Matyas. You may rest now.”
He looked around, seeing hard floor everywhere, covered in books, statues and other odd objects. Where was he supposed to sleep? He’d have to twist himself like uncooked dough to find a spot. At least at the inn, his mother had given him a thin pallet and some torn sheets to set down in front of the stove.
He must have made some kind of noise, for Veil’s head lifted and she turned to look at him. Matyas said, “I don’t . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Ah,” Veil said. A finger pointed to the alcove with its small wooden bed, white pillows and a quilt of alternating squares of roses and squiggly signs.
Matyas stared, mouth open but unable to make a noise. He had never slept in a bed. Once, when a guest had left early, he’d sneaked into the room and lain down on top of the scratchy blanket. He couldn’t remember now what it felt like. All that stayed in his mind was what happened when his father walked in and caught him. For days he could hardly move to do his chores, and when he did, he had to check constantly for any drops of blood that might leave a stain on a sheet, the floor, a dish.
Now he walked over to stand just outside the alcove where he could stare at the bed. It looked so soft! But suppose it was a trick! Maybe if he dared to lie down he would burst into flames, or snakes would rear up to tie him so he couldn’t get away, and fire demons would roast him. He said, “Mistress—”
“Veil,” she said, and when he looked confused she added, “There is no reason to call me Mistress. I prefer my name.” When he did not continue, Veil added, “I apologize for interrupting you. What were you going to say?”
“I can’t lie there! That’s your bed.”
“Ah,” she said. “I see the problem. Matyas, I am very old, and old women often prefer to sleep sitting up. This rocker suits me quite well. And since I am not using the bed, it’s for you.”
Carefully, just in case it was indeed a trick, he lowered himself onto the bed where he lay on top of the quilt. A small sigh escaped him as he closed his eyes. He had never felt anything like it. For a moment he wanted to cry, something he had not done since before he could walk. But then that passed, and a moment later he was asleep.