by Edun, Terah
“Very good, everyone,” Caras said perkily. Clearly, she was loosening up after her breathless beginning. “Chapters 3 and 4 of your text include an intricate diagram of the airways and ventilation system of the heart and lungs. Please study it for tomorrow’s class. We’ll discuss it then. You may go.”
As all the other students walked out of the class, excitedly discussing pulse rates, Sidimo held back. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he stared absentmindedly at the mannequin in front of him. “Is there something wrong?” asked Caras.
Somewhat startled, he looked up and turned to where she stood at the foot of the cot. “No, not really,” he said. “I do have a question, though. If a mage can see the pulse rate of another’s magic, what’s to stop him from modifying that rate from afar?”
At his question, the iron-haired Initiate watching from the side of the room walked over. “Nothing, young man…except a sense of morality.”
At this Caras spoke up: “Yes, sensing the magical pulse is a sacred gift of the healers, and not to be used lightly.”
Sidimo quickly asked, “Are you saying that healers are the only mages who can sense the pulse rate?”
“Well, no,” Cara replied slowly, glancing nervously at the Initiate.
“But we are the only School that is taught to look for it,” said the Initiate, “That is how it always has been, and always will be.”
With a frown, he said, “You misunderstand me. If more mages knew about this ability, they could use it in times of emergency, just as a healer would.”
“One would hope so,” responded the Initiate, “But for now the rules stand, Sidimo. You are not to share this knowledge with students of other Schools.”
Sidimo grimaced and protested, “But what about healers who are not taught by the Schools? Surely you could understand…”
Sean had come up by then. His tone was decidedly cool in response: “The only proper healers are those taught at the Madrassa. Hedgewitches are charlatans who prey on villagers and rely on inefficient herbs in their concoctions.”
Seeing that he was outnumbered and clearly had no support, Sidimo said nothing further on the matter. He bid them a good day and walked out of the classroom.
Allorna had decided the previous night that her next class needed to be Techniques and the Flame. She was excited about the opportunity to learn about the basics of the fire element, as well as how to call upon it reliably. She was surprised to see, upon walking into the classroom, all sorts of glass instruments all over the place: tables covered with storage tubes, neat ranks of round bottles with slender openings, cases of glass orbs, and even boxes full of sparkling stirrers made of black glass. She took a seat in the front row close to the large chalkboard.
In walked a middle-aged man with fiery red hair. On his left arm he carried, of all things, a snake. It was small, with red and gold bands swirling around its body. He absentmindedly put his satchel down on the long demonstration table at the front of the class and walked over to the window. There was a glass cage sitting in the sunlight with grass inside; he tenderly scooted the snake into the cage, and returned to the front of the room. “Good Afternoon, students!” he boomed in a hearty baritone. “Beautiful day outside, isn’t it? I’m Initiate Hoffman. I’ll be teaching you about the fire element and perhaps more.
“Now,” he continued, looking out at the students and rubbing his hands together. “Who can tell me how to make a normal Human fire?”
A girl in back raised her hand. “You need a source of fuel for the flames, and a source of ignition to light them.”
Hoffman stroked his beard, “Yes, I would consider that an apt description, if a bit wordy. Very apt. Well done. One point for your team!”
When the students looked around in bemusement, he started and said a bit sheepishly, “Oh, yes, I haven’t assigned teams yet have I? Very well, there are 16 desks here, and 32 of you.” He stopped for a second and squinted, “Wait, no, I can see that one of you is missing. He or she will just have to catch up tomorrow.”
He then pointed at the girl who had spoken up, “You are the Purple Team.” He moved his hand around in a square, “By you, I mean the four desks in the back corner.” He then proceeded to put the other three sets of four desks into team colors. The room was soon divided into four quadrants: Purple, Green, Blue, and Orange.
Satisfied, he went back to teaching about the innovation of fire. About halfway through the lesson, his snake started squawking like a little bird. With a cough, Hoffman waddled over and reached his hand into its cage. “Aww, my pretty little Sephora is hungry. Yes, yes, my sweet.” He carried her out and proceeded to go back to the front table. As he fumbled around in his satchel for what Allorna assumed was snake food, he addressed the class: “This, students, is Sephora. You are not to try to touch her, pet her, or otherwise agitate her. She is an Agora snake, mildly poisonous and wholly uninterested in your little lives.
“Ah ha!” he said. Out of a little packet that he set on the table, the Initiate fetched a white mouse by the tail. Allorna’s lips curled down in distaste. At least it was already dead. Sephora proceeded to slither onto the table, presumably knowing what part to play in the upcoming meal.
As she turned towards the mouse, her feathered hood flared open, displaying spiny ridges and bright red scales. She reared back, darted forward, and then swallowed the mouse whole, leaving only the tip of its tail visible at one corner of her mouth. Allorna watch in fascinated horror as the bulge made by the mouse moved gradually down toward Sephora’s midsection, and the bit of tail disappeared.
“Yes, my sweet, aren’t you such a good girl?” Hoffman cooed over his disgusting pet as he put her back in her cage to digest the meal. “That should last her a few days.”
As he went back to the lesson with no further comment, Allorna’s left eye was twitching. She couldn’t help it. Were all the Initiates at the Madrassa odd in some way? First it was the kith instructor; now this?
“Each of you please fetch a round bottomed beaker and stand from the selection cabinet to your right,” Hoffman said. After much scraping of chairs and shuffling, they returned to their seats with beakers and iron beaker stands in hand. “Today we shall practice fire orbs. But not just any fire orbs: everlasting orbs.”
He glared around the room portentously, then continued, “Now pay careful attention. Please come to my side and gather round.” The students gathered in a circle around the front table with Hoffman; Allorna end up two students to his right. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, or about this instructor; but she determined that any prejudices she held as a gardis would remain separate from her position in this class.
“Please tell me your names as you practice,” said Hoffman, while pointing a hand at a young boy across the circle, “You will be first.”
The boy was calm and looked directly at the instructor without flinching. He replied, “Yes, sir. My name is Nard.”
“Good. Now,” Hoffman intoned, “follow my lead and instructions. No one else interferes or moves. Merely watch, listen, and learn.” He held up his left palm, and a soft purple glow began to form above it. “Creating this orb was easy, as I’m sure you all know from practice before.” There were nods all around the table.
He continued, “Calling the flame to hover above my flesh means that I don’t need a conduit to enhance my power. The energy flows straight from my core to the air above my skin, and takes the form I’ve asked it to. Do you all understand that?” They all nodded again as they stared at the bright ball of fire hovering above his palm next to the large glass beaker. “Good. Now, Ned is it?”
“Nard, sir.”
“Well then, Nord, hold your palm out and push a bit of fire out of your core to hover in front of you.” They had all lit palm fires before, so it was an easy feat for Nard to manage.
“Now I will show you how to do this in the beaker,” Hoffman declared. “Many mages find it easier to put their hands around or toward whatever object they’re trying
to affect, but this action is completely unnecessary, and foolish to boot. Focus your mind; the movement of your hands has nothing to do with this.” He glanced toward the ceiling. “Unless you’re creating a fire weapon, of course, which you’re not.” He muttered, “Hasn’t been done in centuries in any case.”
They all nodded.
“Open your mindsight. Watch me push my magic into the beaker. The beaker gives the fire a focal point in which to rest; a home where it will be content to stay.” As he concluded, a round orb of fire appeared inside the glass. Satisfied, he said, “As long as I feed this flame every few months with a little bit of core power, it will never go out. Go back to your seats to practice.”
After sufficient time had passed, and he had walked along the aisles encouraging the students in their task, Hoffman returned to the front and said, “You will probably not be able keep the orb aflame for very long…a few days at most. Practice after school. On Friday, we’ll combine efforts by team. The strongest flame will win points towards the end-of-the-semester prize, and one team member will receive an everlasting orb, guaranteed for one year without need for renewal, from me. Makes a great study light.”
There were excited whispers from all the students as they filed out. Allorna overheard the conversations of several students float by. “Everlasting orbs are worth a lot of money!” said one boy, with excitement on his face.
“They’re not easy to make on your own, either…” whispered a girl with a blonde ponytail to her brunette friend.
Another boy passed by, saying, “This one is mine.”
Vedaris reached the town market just as the third class bell sounded; he figured he had enough time to get in and back before twenty minutes or so had passed. Even if more than a third of the class had passed by then, though, this was more important—far more important. At least, that was what he told the small corner of his mind that was vehemently protesting, with occasional references to living on street corners again.
He wandered from stall to stall in the inner market, looking for the art seller the priest had mentioned. He asked an old woman what the art seller’s shop looked like. She was far too interested in how much money he was carrying to say, so after that he was too mistrusting to ask for directions. Finally, after much wandering, he came across a small house on the corner of the market. Two bronze dog statues guarded the entryway. It had a cloth awning and was fairly clean looking. Something told him this had to be it.
He walked in, and was immediately struck by how small and closed-in the place actually was. There were figurines and sculptures on every available surface; paintings on the walls; little stone statues on the steps leading up to the second floor. Carefully, he stepped around and wove through the maze of art to the stairs. As he walked up, he felt a cool breeze wafting down from above, and wind chimes in the distance.
He was surprised to find that the upper floor was much cleaner, bare except for a few objects, rugs, and curtains, as well as two empty tables. There was a door in the far wall. He frowned, wondering where it led: a back room, perhaps, or an adjoining house? Just then the door opened, and a girl in a long, flowing brown jalabiya with a broad orange stripe across the chest walked through.
As soon as she saw Vedaris, she stopped and shrieked, “Who are you? What are you doing in our house?”
Vedaris frowned at her. “House? This is a house? I thought it was a shop?”
The girl snapped, “We own it. We live here. It’s a house. Therefore it’s our house. Do you see any sales attendants or abacuses here? No? Then get out!”
Vedaris held up his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “Wait, please. I just came to ask some questions about an artist. Her name was Leanis.”
The girl scoffed, “Leanis? Why do you want to know about Leanis? Get out, you!” she demanded again, pointing imperiously toward the stairs.
Vedaris growled, “Dreck! For a merchant’s shop, you sure don’t have very good customer service!”
The girl looked at him as if he were crazy. “As I’ve told you already, this…is…not…a…shop.”
“But you do know something about Leanis, right?” he asked.
She cried, “Out of this place, now, or I’ll ring for the town watch! You have 10 seconds, crazy boy!”
Wind began to rattle through the house; he felt it push against him, his clothes flapping, until he stumbled backwards toward the stairs. “All right, all right,” he called. He had no choice; obviously she was some kind of Air mage, and how could he fight that? He stumbled out, trying without success to brush the dust off his clothes.
The girl, meanwhile, looked around the house, making sure he hadn’t touched anything. How’d he get in here anyway? she wondered. The shop is veiled against outsiders. Only those with the key should even see it, let alone enter unannounced.
Vedaris, meanwhile, had exited the art “house.” He checked the position of the sun overhead and cursed. He was very late for class. He took off at a sprint towards the Citadel.
As he approached the gate separating the school grounds from public land, he ran smack into a tall, broad-shouldered lad. Vedaris bounced off him like a sparrow ball hitting hot stone. From his new position on the ground, he groaned and rubbed the back of his head. That didn’t stop him from simultaneously leveling a glare at the culprit in front of him. Prepared to roast the lad (at least verbally) for getting in his way, he stopped short when he saw a hand extended to help him to his feet. Vedaris begrudgingly took it and stood up. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” asked the young man mildly.
“What’s it to you?” responded Vedaris, with no little rancor. The young man’s eyebrows lifted, and he tapped a finger on the badge at his waist—the badge of the gardis.
Vedaris groaned inwardly and thought, Across a sea and thousands of leagues away, and I still can’t escape the bloody Guardians. With no further words needed, the young man put a heavy hand on Vedaris’ left shoulder and proceeded to guide him through the gates back up to the Citadel.
Vedaris considered protesting, but you don’t get on a Guardian’s bad side if you can avoid it. While the City Watch was the guard dog of the common people, the gardis were the knights of the realm. Confronting a watchman might mean a night in the stockades; confronting the gardis could get you and your entire family exiled to the Wastelands in the bat of an eyelash. As they wound their way through the early afternoon crowds, the gardis asked quietly, “Which class are you supposed to be in now?”
Vedaris mentally recounted his choices: Power and Premise or The Dark Arts. “The Dark Arts,” he responded sullenly.
As they reached the campus and headed uphill toward the towers, he wondered, suddenly, why a gardis was in town anyway. Weren’t they supposed to be defeating the forces of evil up north, or at court counseling the Emperor?
“You know,” said the gardis thoughtfully, “Not all the classes here are bad. I was like you once. Couldn’t wait to get out of my courses and discover the real world.”
This time Vedaris didn’t bite back his retort: “You’re nothing like me.” Ha! He’d bet his last shilling that the Guardian had never gone hungry in his life. Everyone knew that the gardis were always chosen from noble families blessed with great magic and money—lots of money.
The gardis responded mildly, “And why do you say that?”
“Never mind,” muttered Vedaris. By then they had reached the School of the Unknown. “Thanks,” he said, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “I’ll just go in now, okay?” He started to stalk off into the School, determined not to look back. If he looked back, he was giving the bugger a choice in the matter…a choice that might end up with him in the Wastelands.
Shaking his head, the gardis stood there in the hot afternoon sun, watching a boy with too much power and attitude on his hands stomp into the School.
As for Vedaris, he grimaced as he tried to find the classroom. This building felt like a prison to him, just one long co
rridor on top of another; and each of the doors that opened off the main corridor led to a portal classroom or building like the one the Wayfarer’s Journey class had been held in. He still needed to find out more about that artist, that Leanis. Seeing as he was currently banned from the main library, he thought, I guess that means I need to check out the other libraries. Maybe Maride could help?
Ahead, he saw other students streaming out of a classroom; and he just knew that was where the Dark Arts class was being held. Well, screw it; too late for today. He decided to duck out with the crowd. Hopefully that damned gardis was gone by now.
He heard someone emphatically clear his throat behind him. He ignored it. They couldn’t want him, so he kept walking.
Until his feet stuck to the floor. Literally.
His boots were melting into the ground, the leather running like brown goo from his feet! He yelped in disgust and tried to move. As he stared down at his feet, twisting and turning all the while, a pair of polished black boots came into view. He looked up into the blank eyes of a short man with purple-black hair, swarthy skin, and the expression of a cantankerous old maid who’s just swallowed a spoonful of alum.
He had a feeling he knew who this was. A bad feeling.
“Welladay, Master Saracen,” said the man pleasantly. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve had the pleasure of a student so blatantly flouting the rules, skipping my class, and showing up one minute before the bell.”
Vedaris gulped and said, “Sir, I, uh had an emergency in town.” A thought occurred to him. “And with all due respect, sir, how did you know I hadn’t chosen Power and Premise for my third class?”
The odd man shrugged. “One knows what is fated.” He smiled, and it transformed his face…into that of an evil clown, perhaps. “Look you, I don’t care if your mother turned into a cat and disappeared. There are rules that must be followed lest terrible things befall you. There is a reason for all things fated, and you were fated to be here today. Perhaps we can mend this crack you’ve made in fate; and perhaps we cannot. In any case, we will try. You missed my class. It won’t happen again. It cannot happen again. I want five pages tomorrow on the skills of the Dark Arts in your hand—and in your penmanship—when you arrive here.”