St ory Mag i c
9
It wouldn’t have to be a very strong spell. Just something to
speed up the rising process.
She’d never told a story before. As a very young child, before
learning good sense, she’d started a few, but her pa had always
hushed her before she could finish. Only members of the guild
were allowed to tell stories, and stories told for amusement
were strictly forbidden. They would confuse the listeners, or so
the guild warned, and no one wanted that.
Kaya had never told a story, but she had listened to the ones
her brother told. She’d thought about them too.
“Listeners,” she began, her squeaky voice barely more
than a whisper—a good thing, in case the landlord was
eavesdropping on the other side of the thin walls. “I have a
story that may interest you.”
The tingling sensation on the back of her neck intensified.
The listener was listening.
“Once,” she began, “a long time ago, in a faraway place,
there lived a girl named Kay—uh—Kalla. Yes. There lived a girl
named Kalla . . . uh, just Kalla. See, she, uh, she lived alone. In
fact, she was the only person in her entire world. And it was
a horrible world, too, an awful world because . . . because . . .
because . . .”
Kaya didn’t know what to say next. Her eyes watered. Her
heart pounded. Sweat slicked her palms. Hob had always made
magic look so easy, but this wasn’t easy at all.
What had she been thinking? She was a girl. It was bad
luck. Besides, she doubted she could create a tale on the spot,
the way real magicians did, the way Hob did.
