by Claire Frank
Cecily looked around at her friends. “Alastair is right. I spoke with Rogan myself and he assured me he would help. I know he’s doing everything he can.”
Serv patted Griff on the shoulder as he crossed his arms and grumbled under his breath. Callum kept eating his food, hunched over his plate and pointedly ignoring Alastair. Sumara nodded at Cecily, and Edson looked around uncomfortably. Cecily felt bad for the poor lad; he was caught up in something he probably didn’t understand.
“I’m afraid I must be off,” Alastair said. “I’m sorry I am unable to stay longer. Mira, the guard will have need of you this evening, I believe. Cecily, I will send word as soon as I have news to report.” He touched his right hand to his chest and bowed. Mira nodded and followed him out of the room.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the companions. Cecily stood and moved to stand by the window. They were on the ground floor, the busy street bustling with activity outside. She watched a woman walk by carrying a wicker basket of flowers, a baby strapped to her back and another child tagging along behind.
Callum eased in next to her and spoke in a low voice. “So that’s it? We wait for Rogan?”
Cecily sighed. “Yes. We wait for Rogan.”
Callum shook his head. “You trust him that much?”
“We both fought by his side. I trusted him with my life more times than I can count.”
“Believe me, I remember. He’s a decent enough king, even I have to admit that. But do you trust him with this?” Cecily looked at him and he held her gaze. “This isn’t the king’s world we’re talking about. We aren’t dealing with heads of noble houses and foreign dignitaries. This is abduction, smuggling, maybe slavery and who knows what else.” He darted a quick glance around the room and leaned in closer, his voice quiet. “This is a little more my domain than his, if you catch my meaning.”
“What do you suggest I do, then? Do you have a plan in that crafty head of yours?”
“Not yet. But I’m working on it. And when the time comes, I don’t think we should sit around waiting for Rogan’s errand boy to tell us what to do.”
Cecily chuckled. “Alastair is not that bad. He’s a good man.”
“Maybe he is.” Callum shrugged.
“How much do you know about what’s happening up at the Lyceum?” she asked. She wanted to change the subject.
“They don’t exactly enjoy my company, at least not out in the open, but I have connections. Why?”
“I have a contact at the Lyceum, and he sent me a rather odd letter before we left home. It doesn’t have anything to do with Daro, but I’m concerned.”
Callum’s face erupted into a wide smile. “Cecily Imaran, you sly thing. You have a secret contact at the Lyceum?”
“Magister Brunell—he was my mentor at the Lyceum of Power. I don’t know that I’d call it a secret, although he probably doesn’t broadcast our association. The gods know, there isn’t anyone else there who would even speak to me,” she said.
Callum raised his eyebrows. The Lyceum of Power was a clandestine wing of the Lyceum, little of which was known to outsiders. During King Hadran’s reign, the Lyceum of Power had worked closely with the Crown, and Cecily had been amongst those the king had used to carry out his orders.
“I do recall you left the Lyceum rather abruptly. They’re still holding a grudge?”
Cecily shrugged. “I haven’t been there in a long time. I’ve kept in contact with Brunell over the years. He’s too much of an academic to hold a grudge if there’s something that interests him. And he was always intensely interested in what I could do.”
“You do have some good tricks,” Callum said.
“I suppose. I don’t know if he ever understood why I left, but he never shunned me for it. And he was one of the few people from that time in my life who didn’t ostracize Daro. He always seemed interested in him, even if it was from a more academic standpoint than a personal one.”
“If you have a contact at the Lyceum, you should go see him. Most of them may be stodgy old curmudgeons, but a friend in the Lyceum can be a powerful thing. They have resources neither Rogan nor I have.”
Cecily hesitated. “I haven’t been there in so long. They’re just as likely to throw me out as let me in.”
“It has to be better than sitting around here, waiting for Rogan to throw us some crumbs. Besides, the library is open to anyone. They can’t toss you out of there unless you threaten to start a fire. Not that I would know.”
Cecily shook her head. She could only imagine Callum walking through the stacks of books and rolls of parchment, shouting, “Fire!”
She looked back out the window. Callum was right—she didn’t want to sit around waiting for anyone, even the king. “I guess I’ll take my chances at the Lyceum.” She looked back at Callum. “Care to join me?”
He smirked. “Not if you want to get past the front gates. They still haven’t forgiven me for the last time I visited.”
16. THE LYCEUM
Cecily walked through the gates of the Lyceum, past two guards standing at attention on either side of the entrance. The wide, tree-lined walkway was flanked by small courtyards and gardens that led into the grounds. The smell of lilies and lavender carried on the breeze. She passed one of the four dormitories, tall buildings of gray stone that curved in wide arcs around the center of the grounds. They were flanked by conical towers and the walls were inlaid with marble and dotted with numerous paned windows. Small groups of students lounged on benches or under the shade of trees, others walking with brisk steps to and from the dormitory entrances.
At the heart of the Lyceum was the great library, touted as the largest in the world. The round building was topped with a dome, a tall spire rising from its peak. Thick marble columns and a sturdy stone base contrasted with the delicacy of the detailed stonework and etched glass windows. Surrounding the library were the lecture halls, four rectangular buildings that jutted out from the center like spokes on a wheel, each with a tower at the far end. From afar, the lecture halls looked identical, but up close there were variations in the stonework that indicated which wing of the Lyceum they belonged to.
Cecily headed for the Lyceum of Vision, the wing of the Lyceum that trained Wielders. The other three wings were for Shapers. The Lyceum of Stone trained those who worked with stone, ores and gems, teaching craftsmen and artisans. The Lyceum of Seed specialized in Shapers working with plant life, including gardeners, woodworkers and those skilled in creating various remedies and potions. The Lyceum of Blood primarily trained Serum Shapers, people with the ability to treat the sick and injured.
The Lyceum of Vision was on the far side, so Cecily cut through the library. She walked up the smooth steps to the paneled wooden doors. They were arched at the top, coming to a point in the center. Gripping the thick iron handle she pulled, and the well-oiled door swung out on heavy black hinges.
Her boots clicked on the shining marble floor. As she looked up to the dome above, she could see floors upon floors of books, jutting out in rings around the outer wall, leaving the center open to the ceiling high above. The dome itself was lined with gilded beams, painted to look like leaves on a vine.
With a sigh, she walked through the library and up one of the many staircases. The musty smell of leather and worn pages brought back a flood of memories from her days as a student. She circled around the second floor and paused to run her fingers across the leather spines of several books on a sturdy shelf.
The second-floor door led out from the library across a raised walkway to the Lyceum of Vision. Once inside, she passed classrooms and lecture halls with students bustling about as they made their way to and from their classes. She wasn’t sure if Magister Brunell would be in a class, but she assumed she could check at his office. Her stomach fluttered with nervousness. She hadn’t been through these halls since before the war. She had burned a lot of bridges when she’d left the Lyceum.
Although the Lyceum was ostensibly divided into the
four schools, there was the also Lyceum of Power, a far more secretive division. It didn’t have its own tower, but operated largely out of floors deep underneath the library. The faculty, however, had offices that were integrated with the other Lyceum buildings, further blurring the lines between the covert Lyceum of Power and the rest of the school. Cecily hadn’t known Magister Brunell was part of the Lyceum of Power until she herself had been initiated into it. He had recommended her to the Paragon, the head of the institution, based on her set of abilities. Initially she had been ecstatic; proud of her accomplishments, she had looked forward to an exciting and prosperous future.
But her life in the Lyceum of Power had turned out to be far different from what she’d envisioned. The training had been brutal, long days spent honing her Wielding abilities to a fine point. Magister Brunell had taken her under his wing and taught her to do things with her ability she hadn’t realized were possible. It hadn’t been long before King Hadran had taken an interest in her, and she’d found herself executing his personal orders, under the direction of her Magisters.
She paused outside the open door of a classroom. A Magister stood at the far end, delivering a lecture to a group of about fifty students. The rows of seats bowed around the stage at the front, most holding students in varying states of attentiveness. Some slumped in their chairs, while others leaned forward, appearing to hang on every word. Cecily had once imagined she would someday be standing in front of a crowded lecture hall filled with bright-eyed students such as these.
Magister Brunell’s office was on the sixth floor of the Vision Tower. She trekked up the winding staircase, her shoulders tight with growing anxiety. The stairs ended at an open landing, a slatted wood railing along the edge. Beyond was a hallway with doors on each side, some leading into offices, others to smaller libraries and study rooms.
Although a bit unsure of her memory, she walked directly to the Magister’s office and found his name etched on a brass plate on the closed door. She knocked and waited with a pounding heart for the sound of an answer. No one responded, and she knocked again, louder this time, in case her first had been too timid. She hoped she wasn’t interrupting something important.
No answer came. She paused, her fist held up as if to knock again, but opened her Awareness and peered into the room. It was empty. Her hand moved to the doorknob, and she twisted it back and forth, to no avail. It was locked. With a quick glance up and down the hallway, she focused her Awareness on the lock and probed the insides. She Wielded a small slice of Pressure to disengage the lock with a click.
The office looked exactly as she remembered it. Heavy curtains were pulled shut, shrouding the room in gloomy darkness. A thick burgundy carpet covered the floor, woven with swirls of green and gold. His desk stood off to the side, piled high with books, papers, and scrolls that created a cozy mess. Two large bookshelves lined the walls, filled with stacks of books piled two deep. Another small table had diagrams spread out, weighed down with shiny, black paperweights.
The air was stale and musty. She crept in and closed the door behind her with a gentle hand. She reached with a finger and swept it across the surface of his desk, then rubbed her fingers together. A light layer of dust covered everything. He hasn’t been here in a while.
She walked around the office and peered at his stacks of books, rolled scrolls and diagrams. Magister Brunell had always struck Cecily as an avid academic. Some Magisters seemed to love their life of teaching, passionate about guiding the next generation. Magister Brunell seemed to teach his classes in order to have access to the Lyceum’s resources for research and learning. He’d told Cecily many times that he believed there was significant potential in many Wielders that remained hidden, and he was determined to find a way to unlock it. He’d pushed Cecily relentlessly in her training and sent her off to work closely with King Hadran, always insisting on detailed descriptions of how she’d accomplished her tasks. She wondered how many of the clutter of books on his shelves held accounts of her doings while she was his student.
A noise outside the office made her neck prickle with anxiety. She didn’t want someone to find her here. Her Awareness told her someone walked by, but was moving down the hallway. She waited until they had gone before she stole out the door and snapped the lock shut again.
If it hadn’t been for the dust, she’d have assumed he was simply occupied elsewhere. But it was clear he hadn’t been in his office recently. She decided to go down to the entry hall of the Vision Tower. There would be clerks and secretaries working and she could ask about Magister Brunell.
The ground floor was as busy as the classroom wing had been. Students, clerks, messengers and other staff came and went, everyone in a hurry. A clerk sat at a long desk facing the front door, scratching something on a piece of parchment with a quill. He was the only person who wasn’t rushing off to one task or another, so Cecily approached the desk.
“Excuse me?” she said, resolve winning out over any lingering nervousness. “I’m looking for a Magister. He wasn’t in his office.”
The clerk stopped writing and slowly raised his eyes, his head still pointed down at his work. “Then he’s probably teaching a class.”
Cecily glanced around and wondered how to press the issue without admitting she’d been in his deserted office. “Yes, but I don’t know where his class would be. Could you tell me where I might find Magister Brunell?”
The clerk’s eyes rose again, quickly this time. He looked her up and down. “What business do you have with Magister Brunell?”
Cecily hesitated. “I’m Cecily Imaran. I used to be one of his students.”
He narrowed his eyes at her as he stood. “Wait here.”
Cecily crossed her arms and glanced around as she waited. After what felt like an eternity, the clerk returned. “Follow me.” He turned and walked away without looking to see if she followed.
He led her back up the stairs to the third floor and stopped outside an office. Her heart sank when she saw the name etched on the brass nameplate. Magister Evan. After waving her in, the clerk turned and left, his swift stride taking him quickly out of sight.
Magister Evan’s office was bathed in light from a large window overlooking the library. It was as neat and orderly as Brunell’s office had been cluttered and dusty. Every book was tucked carefully in place and even his small collection of statues was precisely arrayed on a shelf. Evan himself sat behind a polished wood desk. He had a wisp of gray hair, and round spectacles perched on his small, upturned nose. Lines creased his forehead and the corners of his eyes, and his bony shoulders were enveloped in a dark green robe.
He looked up at her over the rims of his glasses. “This is unexpected.”
“Yes, I apologize for dropping in on you like this,” Cecily said. Magister Evan had been another of her teachers during her time at the Lyceum and had been particularly critical when she had left. “I was hoping to speak with Magister Brunell.”
“What do you want with Magister Brunell?” he asked, as he pitched his fingertips together.
Cecily paused, unsure of how to answer. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps. Two Lyceum Guards placed themselves in the doorway behind her. “I had business with him, of a personal nature.”
“Magister Brunell is unavailable,” Evan said. He adjusted his spectacles. “He is currently on sabbatical. You may leave a message with a clerk downstairs.”
“Sabbatical? I was in contact with Magister Brunell recently and he didn’t mention anything about going on sabbatical.”
“He has taken an extended leave of absence. Whether or not he notified you is none of my concern. If you will excuse me, I am extremely busy and must return to my duties.” Evan waved a hand and the two guards stepped up beside Cecily. “Odlem, Vanhem, please see Lady Imaran to the outer gates.”
One of the guards put his hand on her elbow and she pulled her arm away, shrugging him off. Her heart pounded and her stomach fluttered with a surge of adrenalin
e but she knew there was nothing she could do. She turned and glided past the guards with her chin held high, hoping to leave with at least a shred of her dignity intact.
“Lady Cecily,” Evan’s voice came from behind her. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “You’ve spent a number of years avoiding our hallowed institution. I highly suggest that henceforth, you keep it that way.”
Cecily shot him a poisonous glare, but he looked back down at his desk, robbing her of the satisfaction of a sharp look.
The guards followed her brisk pace all the way to the outer gate. She didn’t bother turning to see if they watched her leave. Frustration boiled inside as she replayed the scene with Evan in her mind. Should she have pressed harder? She wanted to kick herself for letting him run her off so quickly. She should have at least tried to get him to speak with her. Even if he couldn’t locate Magister Brunell, he might have been able to tell her something that would help her find Daro.
She turned south, heading down the hill to the lower part of the city, and fought down a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
17. CONDITIONING
Daro sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. Fear flooded through him as he remembered where he was. The room was dark, but he could see. He carefully tested his limbs, wiggling his fingers and toes. Relief crept in as his eyes and body responded. He moved his arms and legs, relishing the sensation. Sindre often left him paralyzed, unable to move or see. He would wake up, gasping as if he’d been drowning, shaking and drenched in sweat.
His breath felt hot against his face, and he realized he still wore the mask. He sat up, pulled the mask off, and tossed it aside. He tried not to think about what Sindre would do when she came back as his hand strayed to the back of his neck. The stone was still there, as it always was, embedded in his skin. He brushed his fingers across its smooth surface, feeling the edges. The line from the stone to his upper back was smooth, as if it had always been there. There was a symbol etched into it, but he couldn’t make out what it might be.