Tempests and Slaughter

by Tamora Pierce

  Arram apologized and closed his eyes. Slowly he drew breath, in and out, ignoring the conversation around him as he let the flying edges of his magic fall back into himself. He found a handful of strands had wandered out of the room entirely, an event so strange that he forgot he was in class and let his mind follow them.

  What in Mithros’s and Shakith’s names draws my power so far from me? he wondered as he tried to call it back to him. As he followed the strands down the corridor, past the masters’ classrooms, the gardens, and the student classrooms, he failed to notice that more of his power was escaping him. What he did notice was the interesting thing, the attractive thing, that was drawing his magic. It sang to his Gift far more sweetly than any temple or street musician. He couldn’t resist finding out what it was. He would do that, and then he would retrieve his power. That was his plan.

  Then he struck the university’s magicked wall.

  The power on the other side was moving. He had felt nothing like it before. It reared up, towering over the wall. It plucked his Gift with claws of fiery gold. Arram fought to yank his power from it, promising himself he would meditate until strange magics would battle to get free of him. The power was amused: it released the strings of his magic one at a time, letting them whip Arram as they returned to him.

  Another Gift, cool and silvery, wrapped itself around Arram and yanked. He flew backward, away from whatever had entangled him, past the classrooms and gardens. His last confused thought was that he was going to die. He struck something with a hard thump.

  Cold water trickled over his face and into his shirt. “I was flying,” he mumbled.

  “Did you see it?” That soft, awed whisper belonged to Varice. “His Gift—it just flowed out of him, like…like ink!”

  “It looked like the night sky, with stars. I thought he was dreaming something odd again, but awake,” Ozorne murmured. “Is he alive?”

  “Of course he is alive.” That was Dagani. “Do his dreams always force his Gift to manifest?”

  “Sometimes,” Ozorne replied. “I’ve never seen it during the day before.”

  “Did you let him know that his Gift was doing things in his sleep?” Varice asked.

  Arram could tell by her tone that she was displeased. He tried to wiggle his fingers to indicate that she should calm down, or make Ozorne be quiet. He wasn’t certain which he wanted to tell her, but it didn’t matter—his fingers wouldn’t move.

  “Why?” Ozorne asked. “He wasn’t harming anything. And it’s entertaining when I can’t rest.”

  “Arram, my dear, your Gift has hold of you,” Dagani told him softly. “Make it release you. You are the master. Make it accept your will. Otherwise I will be forced to use stern measures.” She paused and said, “They may involve removing your shirt.”

  The thought of the beautiful Dagani seeing his bony chest made Arram fling his power around the fugitive tendrils, then shove them down into his center with a strength he didn’t know he possessed. Once they were subdued, sinking into the pool of his Gift, he sat up, banging into Ozorne’s shoulder.

  Dagani drew over a chair and sat on it. “You need to work on your concentration. You must not lose your hold on your power in your sleep—a greater mage might draw it from you as a spinster draws thread from wool.”

  “I would never!” Ozorne said with a grin. Dagani quelled him with a raised eyebrow. The prince ducked his head and busied himself in drawing up chairs for himself and Varice.

  “What happened to you?” the mage asked. “One moment you were with us, and then…your Gift broke away and your mind followed it. You collapsed.”

  Arram remembered and moaned with disappointment. “I missed it! You see, there was this tremendous power outside the wall, so huge I could feel it—”

  “Oh, please,” Ozorne said, though he was smiling. “The master didn’t feel any tremendous power! You’re mistaking your own loss of control—”

  Dagani held up her hand. “This power, did it move consistently in one direction, or did it shift here and there?”

  Arram had been staring at Ozorne with hurt—how could his friend say such a thing? The master’s question distracted him. There had been one strain of magic, immense, but farther away. It hadn’t come near him. It was the other that had moved, approaching the gate. “It moved,” he murmured. “I think it was going to come through the gate, even with all the magic on it, but it stopped when you pulled me away.”

  “Well.” Dagani tapped her full red mouth with a finger that was tipped with blue lace-like designs. “You would have learned these things in the Upper Academy as you grew more attuned to…the natural world, and the Divine Realms.” The three students stared at one another, amazed. They hadn’t heard of this aspect of magecraft. “Magic attracts magic. Normally it is not a factor, unless you are working very powerful spells. As masters you would be taught how to ward off magics that would interfere. But there are other magics that might be drawn to you.”

  She rose and walked to the open door, looking outside. “The power you felt—and I know you felt it—the slow one that moves in one direction is the Zekoi River and its god. I’ve been feeling the itch all day. He doesn’t always come this far north, but when he does, you know it.” She leaned on the doorway. “And the other that nearly caught you must have been one of the lesser gods.”

  “Can they pass through the spells on the wall?” Varice asked nervously. “I’m not sure I want to deal with any gods, ever.”

  “If they do, Master Cosmas will summon a group of us to deal with whichever god it is, be it hippopotamus, crocodile, hyena, snake.” Dagani smiled. “You need not worry, my dear. This place has drawn magical beings for centuries, and we always manage to deal with them. Now, Arram will meditate for the rest of our time, to settle down, while you two will undertake our first lesson.”

  —

  At supper Arram was trying to create an image of the power he had seen for his friends when a runner tapped him on the shoulder. The image flew apart. Arram turned to glare at the older boy. “I almost had it!” he snapped.

  “Shouldn’t use your power in the dining hall anyway,” the runner informed him. He was chewing on a straw. “Cooks don’t like it.” He shoved a folded note at Arram and wandered off. Fluttering her fan, Varice watched him leave.

  “Don’t tell me you admire that oaf,” Ozorne scolded Varice as Arram unfolded the note. “I heard he goes into the city with his bully friends and picks fights with the gumat.” He’d used the word for the street toughs in the poorest parts of town.

  “Looking doesn’t mean swooning,” Varice retorted, rapping her royal friend lightly on the shoulder. “Arram, what is it?”

  “I have a new class with Master Yadeen,” he moaned in dismay. “Before breakfast!”

  “Hag roll the dice,” Ozorne murmured. “Studying what?”

  Arram knew he must look as puzzled as his friends. “Juggling!”

  THE IMPERIAL UNIVERSITY OF CARTHAK

  The School for Mages

  The Lower Academy for Youthful Mages

  REVISED SCHEDULE OF STUDY, SUMMER TERM, 436 H.E.–SPRING TERM, 437 H.E.

  Student: Arram Draper

  Learning Level: Semi-Independent

  Second Morning Bell

  Summer Term—Juggling—Yadeen

  Autumn Term, Spring Term—Stones and Magic, Juggling—Yadeen

  Breakfast—Third Morning Bell

  Morning Classes

  Gems and Stones—Summer Term—Third-year student

  Religions—Autumn and Spring Terms—Third-year student

  Four-Legged Animals: Anatomy—Summer, Autumn, Spring Terms—First-year animal healer

  Language: Ergwae

  Lunch—Noon Bell

  Afternoon Classes

  Protective Circles—Cosmas

  Illusions: Objects—Dagani

  Basic Spellcraft—Summer, Autumn, Spring Terms—Fourth-year student

  Monkey, Orangutan, and Gorilla: Anatomy—Sum
mer, Autumn, Spring Terms—First-year animal healer

  Supper—Seventh Afternoon Bell

  Extra Study at Need

  “Inhuman,” Arram moaned to himself as he lurched up the gently sloping path. “Should have—have stayed home with the family business. No friend keeping me up all night asking how I knew ’bout power if it was outside a shielded wall….” He stopped for a yawn that made the hinges of his jaw crack. Then he turned down the roofed corridor that would lead him to the master’s workroom. Of course it was at the end of the walkway, past three gardens. Each had spraying fountains set in patterns of colored stones. Arram would have loved to stick his head in a fountain to cool off—the sun had already turned hot, in only an hour!—but he had a long day ahead, beginning with Yadeen.

  The last workroom on the corridor was open. Arram found Yadeen leaning against the far wall. He always forgot how big the man was!

  He bowed. “Good morning, sir,” he said nervously.

  Yadeen, wearing a loose pale linen shirt and breeches, nodded. He was turning something over in his large hands. Before Arram could guess what it was—it was small enough to be hidden in Yadeen’s grip—the master said, “Catch,” and tossed it to him.

  The wooden ball hit Arram in the middle of the chest—not hard, but enough that Arram noticed it was there. “I’m sorry,” he said as he fumbled and dropped the ball. He retrieved it. “I wasn’t—”

  “Catch.” Yadeen calmly tossed another ball at him. Arram reached for it and dropped both that ball and the one he already held.

  “The idea,” Yadeen said, “is for you to catch the first ball one-handed so you will be able to catch the second ball with your other hand.” When he saw Arram glance around at the shadowy room, he said, “Let’s go outside, where we’ll have more light.” He led the way to a patch of bare earth next to the building.

  “I don’t understand,” Arram said when they halted. “What is this for?”

  Yadeen collected the balls from Arram’s hands and walked until he was fifteen feet away. “It is for concentration and coordination,” he said, raising his deep, accented voice so Arram could hear. “Until you can fix your attention on one thing while your hands do another, you will be a very dangerous young mage, and not for the proper reasons. Catch.”

  Arram caught the first ball with both hands. This time he only missed the second ball, since he remembered to keep the first in one hand. “I’m sorry,” he called.

  “Don’t apologize,” Yadeen ordered. “Learn.”

  —

  Through autumn, Midwinter, and into spring term, Arram, Ozorne, and Varice worked hard. Arram might have felt sorry for himself given the extra hour with the stern Yadeen in the mornings, but the same day that Arram began the study of juggling, Ozorne announced he was to apply himself to an hour of swordplay, on his mother’s orders. Varice, who never slept past sunrise if she could help it, decided to volunteer in the kitchens, in defiance of her father’s wishes. Unlike many of their fellows, the three never complained of trouble falling asleep.

  At Midwinter, Arram had the pleasure of buying more than trinkets for his friends. He got a fine pocket dagger for Ozorne and a carving knife of good steel for Varice. Each of them had obtained books that he had coveted all season but refused to buy, since he’d been saving his coin for presents. And for his birthday he got more gifts, not just from his friends, but from Masters Cosmas, Dagani, and Yadeen.

  “It is the custom for a master to do this for the student, but not the other way around,” Yadeen said when he handed a package to Arram. “It is assumed the student needs every nit he can find, if not for now, when he has a stipend, then later, when he is on his own. Don’t bother to be grateful,” he said when Arram opened his mouth. “I do poorly with gratitude. Open it.”

  Arram gently unfolded the beautiful blue-violet shoulder drape the master had used for wrapping—where he’d wear such an elegant garment he had no idea!—to find a polished red wood box, figured with dragons and griffins. He opened it to discover hand-sized balls, six of them, each different shades of reddish, brown, or black wood.

  “Juggling balls,” he said blankly. He looked up at Yadeen and realized the master’s eyes were dancing. It was the first time he’d seen the man look humorous. “I don’t know what to say,” he joked, keeping his tone flat.

  Yadeen clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew you would be pleased. Try them out before classes begin again.”

  Gifts from Cosmas and Dagani were books. Dagani’s was on great illusions, including one that was supposed to have lured all the world’s griffins out of the Mortal Realms and back to the Realms of the Gods. Cosmas’s book told of unusual mages: those who did not follow the normal path to a position as a teacher or a serving mage for a government or for a noble or royal house. Ozorne and Varice both leafed through it and shrugged, uninterested. They didn’t offer to show Arram the books they had received from Cosmas and Dagani, and Arram didn’t ask. He was too interested in his own books.

  If asked later, Arram would have said he didn’t remember the passing of the weeks. He did recall students from the Upper Academy lingering around Varice in the late afternoons. Arram was taking evening strolls through the halls with dark-eyed Sheni in January and early February, before she tired of his “headache-making big words.” She left him for a student who hoped to be a healer when he reached the Upper Academy. It was just as well: Ozorne was bleak again and needed attention and reminders to take his medicine, as he had the previous spring.

  Varice ignored the older students. She made extra money giving new turns to spring garments for other girls, stitching on lace, taking in seams or letting them out, and sewing on embroideries. When Arram pointed out one evening that surely her stipend covered all her expenses, she looked down her nose at him.

  “There’s the future to think of,” she informed him, holding her work up so she could be certain the seam was even. “I’m putting money by for that.”

  They were in one of the empty cubicles in Arram’s room. Although they tried to talk quietly, Ozorne heard. He was in bed; they thought he’d been sleeping off another shadowy spell. “I told you, you’re going to live with me,” he called. “We’ll have our own place, in the mountains or a forest….”

  “And if we’re sent journeying once we’re working for a mastery?” Varice inquired. She picked up a handful of lace and began to roll it neatly. “You know they do it to a lot of them. I for one don’t intend to sleep on the ground on a ragged blanket, eating charred rabbit I cooked on a fire!”

  Arram snorted. Ozorne began to chuckle. The idea of Varice—of any of them—living in such conditions was too amusing to consider seriously.

  “You know they’ll settle us with a master elsewhere in Carthak, or somewhere north,” Ozorne said as he sat up and threw off the blanket. “They don’t just cast people they’ve taught so much into the winds of chance!”

  Varice sniffed. “I hope so, but I’m not taking those chances if I can help it.”

  “I wouldn’t permit it,” Ozorne told her cheerfully. Arram believed him, and his heart sank a little. It would be fun to wander alone, learning whatever he pleased. Perhaps Ozorne would let him off the leash now and then, when the time came.

  The afternoon of the following day, he was so fascinated reading a book Yadeen had loaned him that he lost track of time. It began to rain. Only the appearance of a wet spot on the page, and the boom of the sixth-hour bell, jarred him from his trance. He yelped. He had promised to work on illusions with Ozorne and Varice; he was an hour and a half late!

  Hoping to gain time, he jumped the waist-high wall to an herb garden. His plan was to run crossways over the rows of bare mounds that waited for warmer weather, which would cut his distance in half. He had not expected there to be a line of large jars positioned on the other side of the wall.

  Down he went with a crash, spilling forward onto a mound with several shattered jars. The ground beneath him was decidedly damp. When he struggled
to his feet, he found he was muddy from chin to toe.

  His first instinct was to run and let someone else take the blame. His second thought was that this would be truly stupid. A mage could track him by the print his body had left in the mud. This occurred to him just as a man who had been kneeling near the corner of the wall rose to his feet.

  He was stocky, not much taller than Arram, with skin a ruddy golden-brown. His black hair was cut short and streaked with gray. Dark eyes with long, sloping lids that lengthened at the corners looked Arram over. He wore a sturdy wool shirt under a sleeveless vest equipped with a number of pockets. His breeches, also covered with pockets, were heavily burdened with the tools of a working gardener. When he stood, it was easy to see that his legs were widely bowed, like someone who had spent a large part of his life on horseback.

  Arram knew him. Everyone did who paid attention to the university gardens. He gulped. “Master Hulak, I’m so sorry! I never would have jumped the wall—”

  “If you knew I was here?” the school’s head gardener, also a master in the study of plants, medicines, and poisons, asked gently.

  Arram’s knees wanted to give way. “No, Master!” he protested. “If I’d known there was work being done here! I thought it was too early for…” His voice locked in his throat.

  Hulak studied him for painful moments before he said, “So you think because you see no plants there is no work to be done? It is fine to gallop over my rows?” He raised a hand for silence when Arram would have defended himself. Clearly he was still thinking. At last he inquired, “You are Arram Draper, Varice’s friend?”