“Why not?”
“It’s not that I’m not qualified.” He said this without boast or false humility, but as acceptance of plain fact. “My marks are very high. I have strong telepathy—I can reach Lord Contare unaided at a range of over a hundred miles. And I have the healing gift. But I like to drink and I like the games, so Lord Henrey and the dean and some other people don’t think I’m serious about being here.” He shook his head. “They wanted Lord Contare to choose from some other magi—the ones with high marks and strong gifts who do behave themselves. But he chose me. So I don’t want to disappoint him.”
“Neither do I.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s my job.” He smiled at Graegor’s lifted eyebrow. “When he chose me as his clerk, he told me that he wanted someone who wasn’t afraid of sorcerers. Someone to help you.”
“I’ll need it.” But he wasn’t sure how he felt about being assigned a friend.
Jeffrei pushed himself up, and Graegor did too. “Let’s go see the map rooms. There’s a folio with some of Davidon’s sketches of his settlement here, and this giant relief map made of plaster that shows the whole world.”
They couldn’t find the folio, but the world map, spread beneath a glowing globe across two wide tables in a cramped, low-ceilinged room, was definitely impressive. It was twice as large as a similar map Graegor had seen at Castle Chrenste, and the plaster molds showed the height of the mountains and the flat reaches of the sea. Graegor found several mountains in Kroldon that could have been the one Contare had mentioned. “Who made this?” he asked.
“Some fifth-year students made it a couple hundred years ago. There’s a spell on it to keep it preserved.”
“Most magic is static, isn’t it?”
Jeffrei looked a little surprised. “Yes, it is. There are far more spells that keep things the way they are than there are spells that change things.”
“Is there a section here just for spellbooks?”
“Several. They’re scattered around. Actually there aren’t as many books as you might think. Spellcasting isn’t about memorizing anything. It’s about focusing your intent, making it clear and sharp enough to set the magic in place.”
Graegor stood up again and asked, “Would you show me some magic?”
Jeffrei lifted his eyebrows. “Like what?”
“Anything.” He gestured aimlessly. Hearing someone close to his own age talk about all this was strange to him. It was as if he had subconsciously believed that he would be much older by the time he mastered the concepts that Jeffrei already seemed to understand perfectly. But maybe it was less complicated than he thought.
Jeffrei glanced around, saw something, and set his feet and reached out his hand. His face was intent, and a few seconds later Graegor felt a brush of dark blue against his mind as a small book flew off a back shelf and into Jeffrei’s hand. His other hand was already pointing into a shadowy corner, and another impression of blue, the color of the evening sky, passed through Graegor’s mind. A lamp hanging from the ceiling bloomed with yellow light.
“Telekinesis and pyrokinesis,” Jeffrei said, as if it was nothing impressive, and set the book on a table. “With telepathy, they form the triad of telegenesis powers that every magus has.” He looked at Graegor. “I won’t even try telepathy with you until Lord Contare says it’s all right. You’d probably knock me out cold.”
Graegor didn’t know what to say to that, except to make a noise of rueful agreement. Jeffrei seemed about to say something, but then his expression lost focus, and he cocked his head as if listening to something. After a moment he said, “Lord Contare would like us to return.”
It took a while to work their way back to the door by which they had entered. They actually passed several other doors leading outside, but Jeffrei said that the door closest to the Hall was the least confusing way out. “I won’t subject you to the horror of the library grounds yet,” he said over his shoulder. Eventually they got there, and past the shadows of the garden near the library wall, the sun shone with such fevered brilliance that Graegor had to cup both hands against his brow to see anything.
“This is the hottest it’s been this summer,” Jeffrei said as they moved quickly toward the steps leading up to the Hall’s shaded terrace. “We’ll check the thermometer in the office, but I bet you could fry an egg on the pavers out here.”
It was much cooler in the Hall. When they reached Contare’s office, the reception area was empty. “That’s where I sit,” Jeffrei said, gesturing at the paper-stacked table and the chair behind it. A fan spun overhead, stirring ivy leaves, and Graegor counted five other plants just in his quick glimpse of the room before following Jeffrei through the inner doorway. Contare’s two assistants were sorting through a stack of thin, loose-bound books on the back table, and they turned when they heard Jeffrei and Graegor come in.
“My lord,” they each murmured to Graegor, inclining their heads.
“Magi,” Graegor nodded.
“Jeff?” The shorter assistant continued in rapid Mazespaak. Jeffrei glanced at Graegor to excuse himself before going to help them.
Graegor saw a thermometer on a stand beside the window and went to read it. Numbers were engraved on the brass tags of the bulbs floating in the clear liquid, and the bulb in the gap was tagged with a 30. The readings on the thermometer in Contare’s tower in Chrenste had not even reached that high. No wonder he still felt flushed; it had to be at least ten degrees hotter outside.
While the discussion between Jeffrei and the assistants took on the unmistakable tone of an argument, Graegor went to the Contare’s doorway and leaned in. Lord Henrey was still there, and Karl had joined them. “Ah, there you are,” Contare greeted him, sitting back in his well-padded chair. “How was the library?”
“Confusing,” Graegor admitted, nodding to Lord Henrey as Karl stood up.
Contare smiled apologetically. “Every Circle means to do something with that place. Maybe yours actually will.”
“Jeffrei seems to know his way around pretty well.”
“I expect he does,” Lord Henrey said dryly.
Karl brought Graegor a glass of water, and he drank gratefully, not realizing until that moment how thirsty he was. He caught the sight of his dusty trousers, and hoped he didn’t have smudges on his face.
“I thought we’d invite some of my magi from the hospital to dine with us at the townhouse tonight,” Contare said. “But I wanted to see how you were feeling. The heat can drain you if you’re not accustomed to it, and it can even make you sick.”
“It can make us sick?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“I feel fine, sir. Sticky and thirsty, but fine.”
“Here, I’ll refill that,” Karl said, taking Graegor’s water glass.
But there was something happening out in the outer office, and Graegor and Karl both looked out Contare’s doorway. Jeffrei was hurrying across the workroom toward the reception area, and the assistants were right behind him, setting down their ledgers and papers and smoothing their shirts. Karl held up his hand and shook his head to keep Graegor from following, then looked back at Contare, who, with Henrey, had quickly gotten up from the table, frowning. Graegor wished he could be included in the telepathy that was obviously passing among everyone else. “What is it?” he asked aloud as Contare and Henrey moved past him.
“Lord Natayl,” Contare said, still frowning. Graegor wanted to ask why the Sorcerer of Thendalia would be here, but instead he trailed behind Lord Henrey, leaning to try to see past everyone. This was the first foreign sorcerer he would meet. He knew little about Thendalia, except that it was on the northern continent and it was one of the four L’Abbanist kingdoms, with Telgardia, Khenroxa, and Adelard. And of course everyone knew that Thendals were very easy to offend, because they were so touchy about protocol.
In the reception room, Jeffrei and the assistants seemed to be proving this las
t, by completing very precise bows and stepping aside with specific gestures to make way for Contare. Graegor, behind him, could see the Thendal sorcerer just inside the doorway. His hair and beard were grey, and his brow sat heavily over dark, unblinking eyes. He held a polished staff in his right hand, but his bearing suggested that the prop should be overlooked. Graegor swallowed as the old man’s eyes suddenly bored over Contare’s shoulder and directly into him.
“Lord Natayl,” Contare said mildly, and Graegor tried not to sag in relief as he escaped the vulturish look. Contare said something else in Mazespaak, and Lord Natayl returned his greeting with equal courtesy, but his gravelly voice had probably never sounded mild. Beside him was a tall blonde man about Karl’s age, wearing a sea-blue magi badge on his cloak, and behind him, still in the corridor, was a girl, her face modestly downcast. Graegor wanted to get a better look at her but was mindful of the stare that had returned to the scrutiny of his face.
Contare stepped to one side, and spoke in Telgardian. “Lord Natayl, may I present Graegor Torchanes, Ninth Lord Sorcerer of Telgardia. Lord Graegor, this is Natayl Pravelle, Eighth Lord Sorcerer of Thendalia.”
“My lord.” Graegor bowed carefully, and with a steadying breath looked Lord Natayl in the eye as he straightened.
“My lord,” Lord Natayl returned in Telgardian, then flicked his eyes over to Contare. “Torchanes, you say?”
“Yes.”
After a pause that almost turned uncomfortable, Lord Natayl turned with a formal gesture, stepping between Graegor and Contare as he did so, and extended his hand to bring the girl forward. “And this is my successor, the Lady Tabitha, daughter of the Duke of Betaul.”
And now the silence became reverent, for the girl who stepped modestly forward was so beautiful as to literally steal the breath from Graegor’s body. Her face was as perfect as a marble sculpture, smooth and fine, with delicate pink lips. Her hair was golden blonde, swept up into an elegant crest atop her head that left bare the fair skin of her neck, and her gown was pale blue silk. Lord Natayl brought her hand to Graegor’s, and without even thinking, Graegor lifted his hand to take hers, as he had taken the hands of hundreds of ladies in Chrenste.
“Graegor,” he heard Contare’s sharp voice, but then the girl’s hand folded into his, and he froze in shock and wonder.
It was as if he had touched light. A prism of color streamed through his mind, sparkling like silver and diamonds. He heard her gasp, and felt her hand tighten on his. Her eyes were wide, and grey like a distant storm, filled with urgent energy. Somehow, he knew what she was feeling ... how his own power seemed to fall around her in soft violet folds, so unlike Natayl ... so unlike anything ...
Then Karl’s hand came between theirs and separated them, drawing Graegor back. Her mind slipped from his—but not entirely, for as they stood staring at each other, Graegor could almost see the pale lines connecting them, magic to magic. He had to lock his knees to keep from stumbling.
Contare was speaking to the girl in her own language, and she tore her eyes from Graegor to stare dazedly at the older sorcerer. But she recovered herself with admirable speed, and dipped a graceful curtsey, murmuring a return greeting. Contare smiled gently at her, and then looked back at Lord Natayl, not gently at all. They exchanged Mazespaak words that seemed polite, if edged, and shortly thereafter the Thendals filed out of the room.
But as she passed the doorway, the sorceress glanced over her shoulder at Graegor, and he stood as if transfixed by an arrow even after she had disappeared into the corridor. He could still sense her, like silvery silken cords laced into his heart.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I think we’ve lost him,” Jeffrei quipped, and the other magi chuckled or smiled, but Graegor could only blink. He could sense her moving away, and it was almost painful.
After a small silence, Contare looked at Graegor. “Come with me.”
Graegor obediently followed him back to the inner office, mildly surprised at himself for remaining steady on his feet. His mind felt ... stretched, somehow. It was nothing like earth magic, nothing like the whirling purple core of his own power, nothing like anything his six senses had ever given him. She was beautiful ...
Contare shut the door to his office behind Graegor, and pointed to one of the chairs. Graegor sat, but Contare didn’t, instead leaning against the table and looking at Graegor very intently, as he had done when they had first met at the cloister in Farre. “I want you to relax,” he said finally. “I need to look at something, and it’s important that you trust me.”
“I trust you.” Graegor closed his eyes.
He suddenly felt a quiet presence in his mind, sky-blue. His power stirred, like a puddle touched by a stick. The silvery threads of the Thendal girl wove themselves tighter as Contare prodded at them. Purple misted over the blue, over the silver, twisted slowly into a knot—
Pain shot through his head as something slammed like a steel door, and Contare’s presence vanished. Graegor pressed his hands to his head a long, wincing moment, taking deep breaths, willing the ringing in his ears to stop. The sensation of being stretched and open was largely gone, and although it ached, he found that his head was actually clearer. He opened his eyes.
Contare had his arms crossed over his chest, and his frown was deep. “I keep making mistakes with you,” he said finally.
“Sir?”
“It never occurred to me that he would do such a thing deliberately. I should have moved faster. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand.”
Contare sighed and moved around the table to sit down in his chair. The fact that Graegor could see he was upset suggested that he was probably much more upset than he seemed. “We’ve talked about how sorcerers and magi do not touch each other casually.”
“Because you can accidentally touch each other’s minds,” Graegor nodded.
“Correct. Our power acts as a shield around our thoughts, to keep our mental lives as private as an ordinary person’s. But a physical touch can augment telepathy, and sometimes it hits those mental shields unexpectedly hard.”
“And it’s as if you greeted the other magus or sorcerer with a punch in the face.”
“You listened well. By placing your hand directly in contact with Tabitha’s, Natayl punched both of you in the face.”
Graegor thought about that. He didn’t feel hurt. He felt quite the opposite of hurt. “But he touched her hand too, so why ...”
“They have probably reached a mental balance that allows them to touch without distraction. I haven’t done that with you yet because I first want us to establish telepathy without it.”
It took Graegor this long to make the connection. “This is what happened with you and Lady Josselin,” he said, and his heart skipped. “Neither of you knew you were sorcerers, and you touched her hand, and ...”
“And our minds bonded with the force of all our power.” Contare was upset, all right. In fact, Graegor would be willing to say that the old man was furious.
“Sir, I don’t understand ... I thought ... I thought you loved her ...”
“I do. But those first years were not easy, because we bonded before we knew each other, before we could choose each other. That’s what Natayl took away from you—your choice. You and Tabitha should have decided yourselves when, or even if, to open your minds to each other.”
Graegor could not see how he would have chosen any differently. “But I can’t hear what she’s thinking, I don’t know what she’s feeling, she’s just ... there ...”
“And she always will be, even through your strongest shielding.” There was defeat in Contare’s voice. “It violates both of you, and the Circle will hear of it when enough of us are assembled.”
“But why did Lord Natayl ... ?”
“An excellent question, and I’m looking forward to the answer.”
“I’m sorry.” Graegor did not know what to say.
“It’s not your fault. It’s Natayl’s. And mine—I did not
see what was coming, and then I was too afraid to touch you myself to pull you back. I’m glad Karl wasn’t.” He shook his head. “He proves his worth every day.”
“Sir, is it—is it because, well, because she’s a girl?—I mean, would this have happened if she’d been a boy?” That idea made his skin crawl.
Contare tilted his head, as if making a mental note. But all he said was, “The bond doesn’t go against your inner nature.”
“You mean ...”
“For you, girls arouse feelings that boys don’t. Touching a boy’s hand is not going to make you react as you would touching a girl’s—magic or no magic.”
“Oh.” That was a relief.
“Throughout your life you will form mental bonds, of your own free will, with men and with women, and each will have a different quality. You will learn how to manage them in your mind—and you’ll learn to manage this one too. I just wish Natayl hadn’t added this complication to your training.”
“Complication?”
“You’re going to be distracted by her presence every time you use your power, until you learn to shunt her aside.” But then he shrugged. “Or maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe this is the best thing that could have happened to you. But my experience—my personal and very relevant experience—leads me to believe that it is going to be a problem.”
“I—I’ll try not to think about it.” He didn’t know if he truly meant it.
Contare seemed to realize that, but he nodded. “All right.” He sat back and looked up at the ceiling for a while. “I need to talk to Pascin,” he said finally, decisively. “And it will be good for you to meet his apprentice—in a more fitting manner than what we just witnessed. Pardon me for a moment, I’ll see if he’s busy tonight.” His eyes lost focus, and the particular kind of silence that Graegor associated with telepathy fell over the room.
With no conversation to carry on, Graegor slipped into contemplation of the Thendal girl. He found that he only vaguely remembered the details of her face, but a deep impression of beauty made him long to see her again, to note those details, to find the exact color of her eyes, the exact shade of her pale hair. He had heard her speak, but he hadn’t understood the words ... they didn’t speak the same language, but was that even important?
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