by Edun, Terah
Next to the School of Earth stood the School of Healing. Shorter than its compatriots, it looked more like a warehouse than a tower. Four floors filled with rows of glass windows faced outward, shining in the sun. With murmured goodbyes to his housemates, and his eyes focused straight forward on the school, Sidimo strode into his new home.
He shouldn’t have been so enraptured by the mystique of the School itself, because even before crossing its fabled threshold his first patient accosted him. A boy, engulfed in flames, ran straight down the hall towards the gaggle of new recruits standing awkwardly in the doorway. Screams arched from his mouth, and the torturous agony of the flames was etched on his face. Most of the students, standing frozen in horror, didn’t move as he came rushing forward. Sidimo, unable to stop the pain but needing to do something, hurried forward to meet him. They tumbled together, flaming body and silk clothes marred by Human sweat and embers.
Sidimo did his best to muffle the flames with his body while calling for the other recruits to help him. He was pleased to note, in a distant corner of his mind, that one girl did not hesitate. She whipped off her cloak to cover the burning boy’s stricken form in a further attempt to starve the flames of air.
Above them, a group of youths had gathered in the balcony that jutted out above the first floor entrance; third year students, by the colored tabs on their shoulders. Laughter erupted from the crowd on the rounded balcony; and fury tore through Sidimo at their callousness. The boy beneath him was literally shaking and sobbing with pain.
It was then that Sidimo realized the stricken boy was not in pain at all. He rolled over to reveal that he was not only whole and unburned, but nearly paralyzed with laughter as he doubled over, clutching his stomach.
At that moment, Headmaster Masadi came thundering in. “What is the meaning of this?” The youths on the balcony chose that moment to desert their posts—or tried. With a quick finger, Masadi pointed at them and growled, “You, you, and you. Kanther, Mary, and Marcas. Don’t think I don’t know that you masterminded this prank. You will see me after the first bell. I have some bedpans that need washing.”
“But sir!” the first boy addressed protested, “We didn’t…”
“Silence!” Masadi roared, then turned to address the erstwhile burning boy, who was now sober as a judge. “You think that burning to death is amusing, Luke? We’ll see how you feel after you’ve tended the burn ward for a full month. You too will join your friends in our little conference after first bell. Indeed, all four of you will see me both today and tomorrow. Or do you have any other thoughts to add?”
Saying nothing, the third-years slunk off, leaving the new recruits down on the first floor shaking in their boots from post-trauma adrenaline. Masadi fingered his beard and said to the remaining students, “This was not the way I intended for you to start the day. Now, you have you chosen your classes, yes? Good. The first two of the day will be held in Classrooms A and B, straight down this hall. Go along; you won’t wish to be late.”
Out of the seven classes Sidimo had been allowed to choose from, The Codex of Healing was his first of the day. As he made his way down the corridor, he realized that this hall had only two classrooms, one to either side, with an advisor’s office at the very end. The class on the left was his. He entered to find a wide room floored with hardwood and furnished with 30 or so individual desks facing a large chalkboard on the front wall behind a podium. He chose a seat in the first row near to the window. At least he could look outside if this class got too boring.
About five minutes after he walked in, a woman with straight blonde hair and a large notebook came in wearing the robes of an Initiate; the collar and hem were embroidered with a blue stripe. She went over to Sidimo’s side of the classroom, where a small desk with a raised cover stood in the corner, and rummaged in the drawers for chalk as she set down her notebook.
The girl from earlier had seated herself next to him…not that Sidimo noticed. As he was not noticing, the Initiate stepped to the front of the class and scribbled on the blackboard in large letters: Initiate Serias of Temblaum. Under her name, she scribbled The Codex of Healing. As she finished she whirled around, dropped the chalk, knocked forcefully on the chalkboard, and then dusted off her hands.
At her signal five students walked in, Probates by the looks of them (including the chastened Mary from earlier), carrying huge stacks of books. “These,” Initiate Serias said, indicating the books with a wave of her hand as the Probates strained under their weight, “are the Codices of Healing. Learn them, memorize them, breathe them. In two weeks there will be a test, and if you don’t pass, you fail my class.”
Sidimo started at her in shock and thought, You’ve got to be drecking joking. It looked like the girl next to him was thinking the same thing as a Probate came round and dropped a fat text in front of each of them in turn.
At that point, Initiate Serias waved her hand for their attention and said just as sweetly as pie, “Now: I don’t want to see your faces until the test. Do not come to my office. Everything you need to know is in the books.” Sidimo gaped at her in renewed disbelief; there had to be two hundred pages at least in the dusty brown-leathered behemoth sitting before him!
There were some grumbles, and then a student in the third row tentatively waved his hand. “Initiate Serias, my father,” and here he paused before continuing rather pompously, “who is Head Medicus to the Thilati clan, says that we’re not required to be in the classroom at all during these two weeks.”
Serias raised her eyebrows. “Did I say you were, young man?”
“No, Initiate,” said the young man, satisfied that he had proven his knowledge.
Sidimo was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that someone had previously known about this damned requirement and had still chosen to take the stupid class. “His father probably told him all the answers,” he muttered.
Chapter 11
On the other side of the campus, Maride was facing another sort of test. He had chosen The Art of the Librarian as the first of his three practicum-related classes. The note included along with the class instructions commanded the students to meet the Research Initiate at the main library.
As he walked in, he saw five or six other students gathered at the front desk. Maride frowned; they were all carrying four medium-sized texts. As he joined the group, the instructor chose that moment to join them as well. That’s when the day got astronomically worse. Maride did his best to melt back into the other students, for the Research Initiate for this class was the irate library attendant, or the prick as Vedaris had referred to him, from earlier. Unfortunately, his see-me-not trick had the opposite effect, because the Librarian’s mouth pursed as soon as he saw Maride, and his eyes narrowed when he took in the lack of books in Maride’s hands.
With a mincing pace, the Initiate took his place before his students. “Callia, come forward,” he said, looking at a young red-headed girl with spiral curls and a dumpy shape. “Young lady, what were my instructions for this class?”
Wincing slightly as she glanced at Maride’s stricken form, she nonetheless complied by intoning, “Librarian Maran, your instructions were to read the four manuscripts of Saran, Goran, Loran, and Siran in preparation for our first week of class.”
“Very good,” the Librarian responded with a sickly-sweet smile. Directing his comments to Maride, he said, “Now, my fine young felanche, pray tell why you are not prepared with the necessary literature? Or do you think you can flout every rule?”
Maride paled at the insult—a felanche was nothing less than a boy who specialized in unnatural practices with dragonkin—but saw an opening. “I apologize, sirrah,” he said stiffly, “but I didn’t know I was required to bring the manuscripts with me. Your note said only to read the required texts, and I have done that.”
“Oh, really?” sneered the librarian. “The four rules of categorization—name them.”
Without hesitation, Maride repl
ied, “Read, Observe, Organize, Place.”
“The best place to store your books?”
“In a medium temperature room without direct sunlight.”
“The best binders in Aphia?” demanded Maran, in a somewhat triumphant tone.
“A trick question, sirrah,” said Maride quietly. “The Aphia don’t bind their texts; they weave them.”
Maran snorted. “Student, I like smart-alecks even less than I like book destroyers. Where did you gain this knowledge?”
“I’ve read every book in the royal library of Sandrin, sirrah, and I have a very good memory.”
“Good. You’ll need it.” He turned away and led them into the stacks without another word.
As they walked forward into the stacks, Callia took the time to whisper in awe, “You know he assigned this work over the winter solstice, right?”
Maride glanced at her and said, “It’s a good thing that I’d read it all before, then.”
At that moment, they reached an incongruous metal door. It was quite unlike the ordinary structure of the library stacks, which consisted of plain wood and dusty tomes. The door was carved with ornate shapes in large metal panels, with a sunburst depression where a keyhole should be.
The Research Initiate inserted a corresponding object into the receptacle and, with a turn of his hand, the door slid back to reveal a room with one long wooden table in the center. The table bore stacks upon stacks of books, all perfectly balanced according to size and meticulously squared off. Along the right side of the wall was a wide window with tiny leaded panes that looked out onto an enclosed garden. Under the window was a short table laden with parchment and pens.
Maran walked over to the books on the tables. He caressed them with ink-stained fingers, almost lovingly. As the students filed into the room behind him, he said, “These texts came to us from the library of the Duke of Carne. He has awarded us the privilege of cataloguing his manse’s private collection, and keeping two books for our own library with his permission. In order to choose those two books I must know what is within all of them. You are to summarize and catalog each of these texts. Look not only for what is on its pages, but also for what is less obvious. A signature, a book plate, a scribble in the margins can make all the difference between an ordinary work and an extraordinary one.”
He looked at each of them in turn, his eyes lingering longest, and mockingly, on Maride. “I trust that you have memorized the teachings in the four books, so get started.” He walked back towards the door, saying as he went, “There are 70 books here, and seven of you. I expect the reports in my office within five days.” With that he walked back through the door, which clanged shut with a resounding boom behind him.
“Does he expect us to stay in here the whole time, then?” demanded one of the other boys, who had dusky skin and tight black curls.
“Don’t be silly,” responded Callia, “He does this every semester. He comes back before the second bell rings…usually.”
With that less-than-enthusiastic endorsement, they got started dividing the tomes between them.
Sitara, realizing that she had to get started somewhere and knowing very little about weather formation, had decided that her first class would be Meteorology.
As she walked into the School of Air, she was surprised at how big it was. From the outside it had looked like a normal round tower with a balcony on the second floor, and what appeared to be an observation deck at the very top. But as she entered, clutching her schedule and trying not to bump into anyone, her eyes widened in awe. It seemed as though the very sky was enclosed in the tower. From a point about five feet up, the brick walls disappeared, presenting an image of the open air, with clear blue skies and plump white clouds. Looking around, she was almost tempted to rub her eyes to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Maris, seeing her flustered, sauntered over. “Amazing, isn’t it? This was built by Mindalran the Architect. He grew up in the cold country near the western border.”
Sitara asked curiously, “Is the actual tower bigger inside than out, then?”
“Oh, no,” replied the Probate. “Technically, we’re not actually in the tower anymore. The front entrance is keyed to a portal. Unless you tell it otherwise, it takes you here. Isn’t that awesome?”
“Oh!” Sitara said. She looked around, staring, then said quickly, “But wait…what about my class? I’m supposed to be in Meteorology right now.”
“Luckily for you, that’s one of the few classes held here in the Air Green—usually it’s just Flight Practice and Advanced Air Techniques. Anyway, it’s over there.” She pointed straight ahead.
With a muttered thanks, Sitara headed toward the opposite side of the Air Green. Upon reaching what she assumed to be her “classroom” for the morning, she settled on the grass and decided firmly not to be caught gawking at all the students, who included more Ansari, flying overhead. Disciplining herself, she started looking over her notes from last night on weather patterns, seasonal fluctuations, and types of clouds.
Then a light thump sounded next to her, and she nearly dropped her notes. She was startled enough to loosen her grip and lose a few to the winds playing havoc in the Green. With a gasp and a curse, she hustled to retrieve them.
In doing so, she turned and ran straight into someone’s legs. A boy’s legs. A boy’s legs in tight leather pants. She scrambled back, just about ready to die from embarrassment. Her frustration didn’t ease when she heard him laughing.
She looked up with no little ire, and was met by the half-smile of a younger version of the Ansari man she’d met earlier. Blue eyes, white hair, white wings, the whole jazz. Do they all have mental problems? she wondered, scowling.
The boy, caught up in her obvious anger, frowned back and raised an elegant eyebrow. “Look, I’m sorry—I didn’t see you, and you weren’t emitting any kind of warning signal.”
Sitara couldn’t stop her eyes from rolling. “Warning signal? Is this a battlefield, then?”
“Can be.” He caught some of her errant papers with a facile micro-gust and held them out to her. After glancing at them he said, “Oh, so you’re a new recruit. We don’t get many of those in the middle of the year. Explains the lack of a signal.”
Sitara gave him a wry smile, took the notes, and introduced herself. At that moment she heard a “Gather round, gather round!” from an older instructor. Excusing herself, she did just that. To her consternation, the Ansari boy chose to follow her over. “Ah, Cleotin!” said the Instructor while looking at the boy at her side, “I see you’ve chosen to join us.” Cleotin acknowledged him with a brief nod.
“Very well, students, I am Instructor Mattes. I am in charge of both Meteorology and Nature’s Skies, if you have chosen to take that class. Cleotin will be my Probate for both, and will be available to assist you with basic class instructions.”
With that, Instructor Mattes squatted comfortably on the ground and indicated the class should do the same. Cleotin remained standing; his wingspan wouldn’t allow him to sit on the ground easily for very long.
Instructor Mattes began to drone, “The skies are great celestial bodies, which should be both feared and revered. In this class, I will teach you the how, show you the why, and prepare you for the when. Now: who can tell me how long winter lasts?”
Sitara raised her hand to answer. When he nodded at her, she said, “It depends on which vale or region you’re in, sir. In the West, the mountains are much higher. The winter can last for four to five months. Whereas here in the East, near to the sea, winter is much briefer and can barely be considered a winter at all.”
“Very good, very concise, Miss Sitara,” responded Instructor Mattes. “So, would you consider the East to have four seasons, miss?”
“Culturally yes, but meteorologically, no sir.”
Turning to a boy with black hair and sun-kissed skin, Mattes said, “Riyan, please explain why Miss Sitara would say this, and tell us whether she is right or wrong.�
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Riyan seemed startled at being called upon, but didn’t falter. “Well, sir, if you’ve lived in one place all your life, what you consider a season will differ vastly from the definition of another person who’s lived elsewhere. Nevertheless, Miss Sitara is wrong to say that meteorologically the East doesn’t have four seasons. It’s true that it doesn’t get as cold as it does in the West during our winters, but there is still a regionally significant change of temperature and weather patterns every quarter.”
“Very good!” Mattes said, nodding jovially. “Now, then…”
The class discussion continued along the same vein for an hour and a half, consisting of back and forth debate, sometimes rather heated, between students and instructor on weather topics. Towards the end, Sitara was amazed at how fast time had flown by. As they prepared to leave, Instructor Mattes said, “Young people, read up on the Western Sea Lights for tomorrow’s discussion.”
As she rose, Sitara glanced discreetly at Cleotin, wondering if he had been uncomfortable standing for the entire time. She was surprised to see that he was staring right at her. She turned away when Riyan came over to continue discussing the morning’s topic. When she turned back, Cleotin had already flown away…or maybe he’d walked.
Chapter 12
As Allorna arrived for her first practicum class, she was startled to learn that it was taught by a kith. The students stood in an open ring of sand thirty feet in diameter, in one of those sturdy multi-purpose classrooms set aside for the School of Fire. When the Initiate walked in, she instinctively reached for the weapon she no longer carried. He was a Kadari dragon, for gods’ sake! Not a real dragon, of course, but that might just make him worse. Vedaris would probably kill her if she even dared to compare him to this four-legged, gray-skinned behemoth with its flickering tongue.