by Rick Field
“Assistant,” Amy said, smile widening, “Feel free to ignore my old Proctor. She is merely attempting to get a rise out of both of us. She loves throwing my worldview upside down. It used to be in the field of magic, but it seems that she recently decided to involve our personal affairs.”
Liane leaned back in her chair. “There is a piece of wisdom that my old Proctor once imparted on me, My Lady, Assistant. She once told me that one of the Proctor's pleasures was to catch her Assistant with her first boyfriend. Now, it seemed for some time that my Assistant tried to deny me such a pleasure, but luckily, I was able to correct that.” She smiled to herself, Cassandra was right, it was fun teasing her former Assistant with a harmless relationship.
“My Lady...!” Amy protested.
“Come now, it is merely some harmless teasing, My Lady,” Liane said. “I am well aware nothing at all is going on. I raised you for three years, and I would like to say that I know you well enough. You wouldn't deny your old Proctor her final bit of amusement at your expense, would you?”
Amy crossed her arms and looked away. “You're not that old, Proctor.”
Liane merely smiled in answer, and remained silent. The posture Amy took now, looking away, arms crossed, pout on her lips, was still exactly the same as it had been five years earlier, when they had broken the bond. It seemed that, despite growing up, the younger Mage still had some of her younger self in her.
It seemed the new Master recognized it herself, and blatantly changed the subject. “How have you been, My Lady? Your letters have shared woefully little in regards to your own doing.”
Liane decided to let it slip. It had been years since they had teased each other like this, and she did not want to push things too far. She stood up, and walked to the windows. Crossing her arms behind her back, she looked out over the courtyard and the silver fountain, Magic to the Wielder. From her position, the fountain looked like an ordinary fountain, she was too far away for it to mimic her magical core.
What could she say? Should she share her deepest secret? She knew Amy, knew that she could be trusted. The younger Mage had been her Assistant, she knew more of and about Liane than almost anyone, and yet had not shared a single secret. Not as far as she could tell, anyway. The senior mage drew a breath. She had been struggling with this for some time now, and perhaps a new perspective was in order.
On the other hand, there were things one did not talk about. A Pillar of Kiria with this kind of problem… was humiliating. She drew a breath. Amy was probably the only one she could tell. The younger Mage was practically family, they had literally shared a room for years.
“I have been well, My Lady,” she finally replied. “Physically. My work is engaging and challenging, and I am forbidden from talking about it. Unfortunately, it seems that my magic is not doing so well.”
Immediately, Amy stepped up next to her former Proctor. Forgotten was the runic array floating in mid-air, forgotten was the young Assistant about to face a testing commission tomorrow. “How bad is it?” Amy posed softly. Gone was the Academy and their titles, they were just friends now, mages that knew the other better than most.
“My magic has become increasingly unstable these last few years. It is almost unrecognizable now. When you last knew me, my magic was broken, fractured, and unstable. It did not react to spells in any known or predictable fashion, and it required me to modify my spells, as well as speak the incantation out loud. These last few years, it has somewhat... reintegrated, for the lack of a better word. Unfortunately, this reintegration has sparked deterioration in my core.”
She looked at Amy. “It was shedding power. I needed to contain it, and have done so. This has the advantage that I am now able to cast most minor spells without incantation, even if I do need to use my manipulated spells to learn them first. Unfortunately, the disadvantage is just as great. A relatively large part of my magic is tied up in containing itself. Every passing week, I need to rebuild parts of my containment spell. Each time, it must become tighter. Each time, I lose an almost negligible amount of power.”
“But it adds up over time,” Amy whispered, aghast. Her pale face reflected Liane's inner turmoil. Losing one's magic was a Noble's worst nightmare. The senior Mage could see Amy’s face reflected the horror of the situation, coupled by understanding of the humiliation that this would bring. For a Pillar of Kiria to slowly lose her magic was something that couldn’t be allowed out.
“Exactly,” Liane answered, far calmer than she felt. Maybe it was because she had gotten used to the knowledge that one day her magic would be gone, or perhaps it was still a leftover from her days as a Proctor, a deep-seated drive to protect the younger woman next to her.
“You commented on my legendary work. Despite the fact that I designed it, built it, and remember it perfectly, it is incredibly doubtful that I would be able to replicate the construction should I need to do so today. Spells you have seen me cast while in the Academy would strain me terribly, some would be beyond me completely now.”
“That is horrible,” Amy said, still whispering. “Is there anything that can be done to help? Could I power the containment spell for you? Or transfuse some of my power over to you? My core is flawless; it will regenerate any power I share.”
Liane shook her head gently. “I appreciate the offer more than you know, Amy. Unfortunately, only I know my magic well enough to power the containment, and a transfusion would be next to impossible with my unstable core. Sharing power, such as through a Proctor-Assistant bond, is a completely different thing than a full transfusion.”
The junior Master fell silent. “I wish I knew how to help, Proctor. What you are going through is awful. It is the worst thing that could ever happen to a Noble, and it is a humiliation for one in your position to be afflicted with. If this got out, your reputation would be ruined.”
In the background, Arno remained silent. Both Mages had forgotten about him, and he wasn't about to remind them. What he was hearing was interesting – not to mention awful – and he wasn't about to shame the trust that he was being shown. He didn't know the Pillar apart from the stories Amy had told about her, but his Proctor obviously cared deeply for her. From what he had seen so far, she seemed driven, knowledgeable, stern, yet willing to help and share what she learned. He knew well enough that most Proctors took the title out of status, and cared very little for their Assistants. He had been blessed with a Proctor willing and eager to teach him, and from what he could tell, it had been Liane that had given the example.
He owed her for caring for his Proctor, for setting a good example on how to be one. Silently, he swore he would take her secrets to his grave. In a way, indirectly, Liane had taught him as well, her teachings enabling Amy to teach him. He owed her for giving him a good Proctor. He wasn't about to let that debt slide.
They stood there for some time, simply staring out the window, looking at the people move about. Finally, Amy turned to Liane, and suggested, “My Lady, how about we visit the market to clear our minds? Perhaps a diversion is in order.”
The senior Mage turned to her former Assistant, a small and amused smile tugging on her lips. “You always were quite fond of the market, My Lady. Tell me, how long did it take you to grow tired of it after I graduated?”
“Tired? How could I ever become tired of something like the market?” Amy replied, just the right amount of amusement coming into her voice. “Come, Assistant. We're going to the market.”
“Yes, Proctor,” Arno said obediently, stepping into Amy's shadow.
“And you will be carrying our bags,” Liane added with faint joviality. The junior Master glanced at the senior one, giving her a knowing look about teasing the young man now following in their footsteps. Liane diplomatically did as if she didn't notice. The gentle teasing was taking her mind off her magic, and that was just what she needed.
********
Liane sunk deep into the plush seat of one of her informal sitting rooms, looking forward to a quiet and relaxi
ng evening. After having spent most of the day at the market with Amy and her Assistant, she was feeling rather tired. Dinner had been up to its usual exquisite standards, and now she had a full evening to lose herself to magical theory.
The books she had borrowed from the Academy's library would see to it.
Opening the first one, her eyes started gliding over its table of contents, and yet she could not focus. The earlier conversation with her former Assistant pressed on her mind. Her magic had been destabilizing for some time now, but talking about it, sharing her suspicions, had made it all seem so real all of a sudden.
Perhaps she had made a mistake to share her thoughts. All she had accomplished was scare Amy, and make herself worry. She shook her head, as if able to dislodge the worrisome thoughts that way, and forced herself to look at the book in her lap. It was open to page forty-nine, and yet she had no recollection of either turning pages or reading the preceding ones.
Sighing, she flipped back to the table of contents. The cardinal number system in esoteric isomorphic projections was something that would have drawn her in back at the Academy. With her present worries, it failed to properly excite her, and she was forced to push herself to read further. Perhaps later in the volume she would find herself engaged.
Someone knocked on the front door, requesting entrance, and Liane practically jumped in surprise. Being on an upper floor, she didn't hear whether the door was answered, nor who was asking for admittance. Dominique would take care of it, if it were some peddler or some meaningless passer-by, he would make sure to send them on their way.
The Pillar turned back to her book. Its first two chapters had been dull as dust, but the third chapter had succeeded in drawing her interest and she found her mind working along familiar paths while she read. Already, exciting new ideas bubbled up, encouraging her to read faster.
A gentle knock came at the door of her sitting room, once more startling her out of her concentration. “Excuse me, My Lady,” her butler said through the door. “The Lord Milor of the Thunderstorms is here. He is currently in the downstairs sitting room, requesting whether you have time to see him. What would you like me to reply?”
For a moment, anger boiled up from her magical core, and she almost told her servant to get rid of her oldest friend. Just as fast as it had appeared, Liane had beaten the errant emotion down, feeling ashamed at its appearance. Milor was her oldest and dearest friend, how could she even contemplate sending him away?
She bookmarked her page, extracted herself from the comfort of her seat, and pulled open the double doors of the sitting room. “I shall tend to Lord Milor. Thank you, Dominique.”
Her butler bowed. “Of course, My Lady.”
Liane wasn’t one to place stock in title or appearance. She knew what she should do – take ten or fifteen minutes to make herself ‘presentable’ through makeup and fancy clothing. She also knew that Dominique should have announced Milor as ‘crown prince of Kiria’, and yet the second most powerful man in the country had been announced like a cold-calling friend.
Devoid of makeup, and dressed in her comfortable indoor clothes, she paced to the ground floor drawing room. When she arrived in the large entrance hall, she suppressed a smile at the sight of Dawnbreaker, The light of Dawn breaking over the shores of Hell, the sword that was her master’s piece, placed brotherly beneath her staff on the weapon’s rack.
When she entered the informal room, she found her friend gazing at one of the paintings that decorated the room, holding a small crystal glass with two fingers of amber liquid in it. He turned when she entered.
“Good evening, My Lord,” Liane greeted him, walking to a small table that held various crystal flasks filled with liquids of various sorts. The one marked ‘Cognac’ was lower than what she remembered, and realized this was the drink Milor had in his hands.
“Good evening, My Lady. Please forgive my unscheduled arrival at your door,” he replied levelly, as firmly in control over his emotions as always.
“There is nothing to forgive, My Lord. I was merely reading a book,” the Pillar said. She turned to one of the servants, and asked, “Can I have a pot of tea? Sweet Leaf, if we still have some.”
“Of course, My Lady,” the servant replied, and ghosted out of the room. Milor looked vaguely amused.
“It never ceases to amaze me that you would be so polite to your servants, My Lady,” he said.
Liane didn’t know whether to be amused, insulted, or angry. She calmed herself. Her magic was influencing her again. “I will always remember where I came from, My Lord,” she finally said, and took a seat in one of the comfortable wingback chairs in the drawing room. “How is the cognac?”
He glanced at the drink in his hands, then gained an appreciative look. “It is absolutely marvelous. May I ask where you purchased it?”
Liane drummed the fingers of her right hand on the armrest of her chair, drawing out the tension for just a few seconds, before replying with a faintly amused air. “I believe that particular brand is called “Courvoisier L'Esprit, and I acquired it on a trip beyond the Great Barrier.”
He glanced back to the drink, suddenly realizing what it was he was drinking. “My Lady, I-“
“I do hope you were not about to apologize for your choice of drink, My Lord,” Liane interrupted. “I have the alcohol to share with my visitors. I hardly drink it myself. My Proctor made sure of that.” A vague smile appeared on her lips as she remembered Cassandra’s unusual way of getting her averse to alcohol.
He took an appreciative sip, and sat down in a chair that was facing hers. Liane’s tea arrived just then, and they sat in silence, enjoying their beverages. Vaguely, she wondered why her friend had come. Milor wasn’t one to act on impulse, and usually had at least something that could be used as an excuse to come and visit.
Unfortunately, the rules of hospitality prevented her from outright asking.
The silence wasn’t awkward, just two friends enjoying a drink together, but it did little to stop her curiosity. “I see you were enjoying my collection of paintings, My Lord.”
He fixed her with a look. “You are well aware how much I appreciate Toris’ work, My Lady.”
“Becoming his patron was one of my best decisions,” she answered easily, reclining in her chair. “To think I was the first to see his potential is surprising.”
“A fact you continue to remind me of. I noticed the new work in the entrance hall. It could not have been placed better to show it to any visitor that crosses your doorstep,” he said, taking a sip from his drink. “May I ask whether you wish to sell it?”
It flattered her ego that he would offer to blatantly, but it was not enough to make her part with one of her prized paintings. “Not right now, My Lord. Feel free to ask again in the future.”
Milor of the Thunderstorms, crown prince of Kiria, was not used to being told ‘no’ by many people. Unfortunately for him, Liane was one of the few who managed to do so and not incur his anger. He made some good-natured comments, comments they both knew to be blatant falsehoods, and lapsed into silence once again.
Liane poured herself another cup of tea while Milor helped himself to some more of her foreign-import cognac. Inwardly, she was pleased that her friend was finally relaxing in her home. There was a time he would be awfully formal and make a polite request whenever he desired something.
She was glad those times were behind them, and he felt comfortable enough to simply pour himself another drink if he wanted it. Finally, her curiosity overrode her sense of Decorum.
“How may I assist you tonight, My Lord? I doubt the crown prince of Kiria would come over simply to drink my cognac and admire my paintings,” she asked.
His lips twitched into a smile. “Truth be told, My Lady, it is truly exquisite cognac and your paintings are of a quality that would befit any museum.”
She settled into her chair, sipped her tea, and looked at him. Something was wrong, or he would not have avoided her question the way he had.
“I note that you have avoided my question, My Lord. Is there something amiss?”
He remained quiet for a few moments. “Nothing is amiss, My Lady. At least, nothing is amiss as far as I know.” Warning lights went off in Liane’s mind. She had called him on his avoidance, and he had simply replied with yet another avoidance. Despite his reassurance, she was sure that there was something wrong with her friend.
She sat up straight, and stared at him. “My Lord?”
He sighed. “My Lady,” he replied. Her words had been framed as a question. His were framed as an opening. She waited patiently for him to make up his mind and complete his sentence. He looked away, glanced at the painting he had been looking at. The Fisherman was one of Toris’ recent works, depicting an old man, with back curved from years of harsh labor, carrying a fishing pole and tackle box. A simple picture, that was able to convey the complex emotion of a beaten, weary old man straining under the years of harsh work.