A/N My first update since April! This story is going to be a multi-chapter look at Lark's life, for a challenge at TPE. Each chapter moves forward of back in her life. It won't have a connected plotline, so expect each new chapter will tell a different story about Lark and the people around her. If you want to participate in the challenge (it's a lot of fun, I promise), the link can be found on my profile. Enjoy, and thank you for reading!
Lark shivered as dawn slowly broke over the ragged rooftops of the Mire. She tried to think of a bright side to her current situation and came up depressingly, hopelessly, irretrievably empty. Landlords in the poorest parts of Summersea had a hundred ways to get every last little bit of money from the people who lived in their hovels; Lark's had decided to wait until dusk to announce that she owed an extra copper crescent for her unpaid weekly rent. She explained that she didn't have an extra copper crescent a month, let alone a week, let alone tonight. She was clear, calm and added a trademark entertainer smile to the end of it.
She spent the night huddled in a doorway near one of the markets, trying to keep warm. Looking up at the now-grey sky, Lark tried to remember if she had slept at all throughout the night. She had the clothes she had left tied in a bundle, her few possessions including the needles and thread she had refused to sell in a leather pouch under her shirt and her one blanket held tight around her shoulders. It never got cold enough to snow in Summersea winters, but that didn't mean it didn't get cold. Lark had spent most of the night looking up at the clear, star-filled night sky trying desperately to breathe through the wheezes as the cold air tightened her lungs.
At least it didn't rain, Lark thought, trying to suppress coughs she knew would never stop if they were given into. The clear nights were always coldest, though; Lark had travelled through deserts and knew this, and it made her attempt at cheerfulness ring false, even in her own head.
Trying to turn her thoughts to practical things, she went over her situation. She needed money in order to get a new place to live. The six copper crescents she had in her pouch wouldn't convince a landlord to take her on. The money she had been making in the past two years had come from weaving and sewing for nearby seamstresses and tailors. She had a number of shops which gave her work, but it required time and a place to work; she had neither.
The only other skills I have, she thought dejectedly, are tumbling, juggling and costuming. All of which could make me some money, with a performance, and none of which I can actually do.
Drawing her knees up to her chest, Lark set her forehead on them gingerly. She was so gods-torn tired. Had there been a time in the last two years when she hadn't been? At times, it seemed like the wheezes had started off a chain of events leading her into the darkness of this moment, every change taking her further from the happy times she'd had in her troupe. She looked up at the sky, her breath hitching. It couldn't get any worse than this... could it?
It will if I sit here moaning about it all, Lark thought, bringing her gaze back down to the street in front of her. One more performance, she thought, squaring her shoulders. What better way to rise with the dawn? Lark had always known that to change a life, someone had to do something...even when it felt like there were no options left to them. Lark spread her blanket, ignoring the cold as she spread her clothes out and started matching colours. If she was going to perform, she was going to have a costume for it.
As a costume came together from her extra clothes and the scraps of cloth she had kept from her travels, Lark reached into her leather pouch and pulled out her two remaining needles and a small ball of thread. Looking over the costume, she calculated quickly.
It won't be enough thread, she realized. She felt her new-found hope and excitement fade away. She pulled herself together with a shake of her head. It will have to do, she thought, threading her needle.
As she began to sew she felt a lightness steel over her; she felt free from the worry that had plagued her since the tightness in her lungs had first began, free from the disappointment and heart-break of losing her way of life, her friends, and her passion all in one day. She stitched along seams, tucked and pulled at fabric, lined up edges and the thread which had seemed in such short supply never ran out. She thought of the joys of the trouper life as she flipped cloth inside out, creating stage finery out of ragged bits of cloth; of the rapture of an audience, the roar of applause, the freedom of the flips and turns, the friendships made among travelling companions... Memories of her life with the troupe, everything it had meant to her, flickered past as she stitched and sewed and –
It was done. The thread ended as she tied off her last stitch. She pulled her needle free and tucked it carefully into her pouch before examining her finished product. Bright blue kerchiefs from Irod had been turned into wide cuffs on each arm. A green scrap of cloth sewn on the inside of the white collar gave a splash of colour across the chest. Ribbon from Yanjing, purple satin from Anderran, red cotton from Sotat... her life of travels all brought together into one outfit. She pulled it over her head and smoothed it out carefully... Yes, it would do just fine.
The walk to the centre of the city from the Mire was punctuated by a gate separating the slum from the city proper. Market Square was busy even this early in the morning as traders and shopkeepers began setting up their wares. Lark spent two of her crescents on bright, colourful fruit, found an out-of-the-way street corner and began to juggle. The reds, greens and yellows flashed through the air in an arch above her head and she added more and more of her collection into the circle. As she added the last fruit, she switched the pattern into a figure eight and shot a quick glance out into the street. People had stopped nearby to watch. A group of children pointed and ran over. A couple shopkeepers were leaning over their stalls.
Throwing one fruit out of rotation, high into the air, and catching it again, Lark took a deep breath and considered. She had their attention. She would make a few crescents with a big flourish, enough to pay for the fruit (which she'd eat or sell, of course) and maybe enough to secure another room, one deeper in the Mire than her last. One day, maybe, if she found enough work sewing she'd be able to move to East District, maybe one day get a steady job in a shop. A practical and reasonable and utterly binding life... Lark wanted nothing to do with it.
She tossed one apple out of pattern, lightly lobbing it to the closest child. His friends clamoured as he caught it and took a bite. One by one, her fruit was caught by her laughing audience. She didn't notice that people passing by had stopped to watch. The nearest shopkeepers had come out of their stores and stands and stood in the street.
As the last fruit left her hands, Lark sprang forward as if to catch it, but ducked into a front roll instead. She pushed herself into a handstand and bent backward, flipping backward and over again. Her audience clapped. There was a small ledge behind her, and Lark ended her flips on her hands, walking upside down up onto the ledge. Balancing there, she split her legs to the side, pointing her toes. In a single movement, she straightened her legs and pushed herself into the air, front flipping off the ledge to land where she had begun, arms outstretched.
The crowd that had gathered burst into applause and she beamed at them, breathing hard and with a tell-tale wheeze, but delightfully happy.
The children in the audience gathered around with questions and demands and she played along with them while money was tossed into her leather pouch. She tried not to gape; there was not just copper being thrown her way... she saw at least three silver crescents in there! The children scattered as a man approached her. He was probably twenty years her senior, lean, with salt and pepper hair and moustache. He was impeccably dressed, his grey, white and blue coat and trousers perfectly cut and in impressively expensive material. Lark looked into his dark eyes and tried to decide if she should bow... but what would a noble be doing watching her street performance?
"Ah," he said as he looked her over. "I see how it was done. I was unsure if it was a pre-made spell, but I see the glamour is in the costume itself. Unethical, no doubt, but the magic itself is impressive."
Lark stared at him as he spoke, uncomprehending. "Pardon me, sir –" she began, but was overcome with a fit of coughing. She covered her mouth with her hands and tried to apologize, but couldn't find the air. Drawing in quick, laboured breaths, her vision was reduced to black and white smudges as her eyes watered and her vision blurred. She felt someone holding her arms as she was guided to sit against the ledge.
The strange man spoke beside her ear, his voice steady and reassuring. "Try to calm your breathing. I won't let anything happen to you, I do promise that. If you can exhale to the count of three with me, do so. One. Two. Three. Very good."
The stranger sat with her, holding her hand for the long minutes it took her to regain her breath.
"Thank you," she said, finally, her voice faint.
"It was no problem, my dear..." he said trailing off.
"Lark," she whispered in reply, understanding his question. She smiled up at him, and he smiled back, the expression transforming him from an imposing figure into someone she decided she liked very much even if...
"What did you say... about magic?" she asked.
"Your costume. The magic you used to capture the audience's attention, make them fall in love with the performance..." He trailed off as she shook her head at him.
"I made this costume myself this morning," Lark said putting a hand to her chest as the explanation winded her. "There can't be any magic in it. I don't have magic."
The man looked at her costume and back into her eyes. He smiled at her. "I do have a certain proficiency at this," he said, "and I assure you that the costume is indeed magical, as are you, my dear."
Lark smoothed a hand over the cloth of her pants. Magic? "Are you a mage sniffer?"
"No, not quite. My particular talent is finding those things hidden from other people, and your magic certainly qualifies. My name is Niklaren Goldeye, and you, my dear, are an ambient thread mage, if I am not mistaken."
Lark was fairly sure that this man, this Niklaren Goldeye, was very rarely mistaken. As she absorbed his words, she realized that the life of restrictions and limits she had seen for herself only a short time ago was suddenly opened up. Magic wouldn't change everything, but surely, surely, it could change something. Maybe it would give her more options than she had now... maybe it could set her free.
"I think it's best if we go there straight away; they can examine your cough as well."
"I'm sorry, Master Goldeye... go where?"
"To Winding Circle temple, to find you a teacher. And, please, call me Niko."