A School for Sorcery (Arucadi Series Book 6)

by E. Rose Sabin

  Tria pondered that unsatisfactory reply on the way to her next class and concluded that Nubba had seen nothing but was ashamed to admit it.

  The opening lecture in Beginning Ethics seemed dull and pointless, but Master San Marté proved amusing in another way: the prissy little man wore an ill-fitting toupee that crawled from one side of his head to the other like a flat ferret as he paced and gestured. It became a game for his students to guess in which direction the toupee was going to slide next.

  After a break that Tria, along with most of the students and instructors, spent on the quadrangle imbibing fresh air, she went to Survey of Arcane Rituals.

  Oryon was also in the class, and his presence made her a bit uncomfortable at first, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it had to do with his habit of dressing entirely in black, or perhaps it was the sardonic expression in his dark eyes. Only two other girls were in the class, along with six boys, but none of the other boys affected her the way Oryon did. Davy, Britnor, Fenton, Jerrol, and Emory seemed no different than the boys she’d had classes with in Basic School back home. She told herself that it was silly to let Oryon bother her; he had not done or said anything to her to merit that reaction. The interest he showed in Lina should certainly not disturb her.

  Fortunately, Mistress Dova’s vivid descriptions of ancient ceremonies captured her interest and let her forget Oryon. A description of a rite for calling the wind and interpreting its speech reminded Tria of her mother’s tales of wind riders. Mistress Dova said that the rite went back to Lady Kyla, who had restored magic to the land more than seventy years ago. Mistress Dova warned that the old rites could not or should not be used today, but Tria couldn’t help speculating on how they might be used and what the effects might be.

  Tria had no class the first session after lunch, but weeded the garden that hour. She hoped for a chance to chat with Wilce, but his duties as detail leader kept him busy. She managed no more than an exchange of greetings.

  Her last class of the day was Logic. The hot and muggy afternoon urged sleep, and she nodded through Master Tumberlis’s long, droning lecture.

  Still fearing that Lina would make good on her threat, Tria slept only fitfully again that night and each night thereafter, always afraid that if she fell into a deep sleep, she might awaken to find a panther clawing at her throat. She had no classes with Lina, so the classrooms were the one place she could let down her guard. Staying awake in class grew harder with each passing day, not only in Logic but in the other courses as well. Midway through the second week Tria lost her battle and slept through Metaphysical Theory.

  She probably would have slept through Beginning Ethics, as well; Master San Marté’s sliding toupee no longer entertained her. But he fixed his gaze directly on her and launched into a discourse on the peril of allowing oneself to be drawn into a contest of power.

  He knows about my clash with Lina. Tria had not used her power since the day of Lina’s arrival and their contention over the trunks, but she had lived in dread of being hauled before Headmistress and accused of violating not only the school rules but also the restrictions placed specifically on her. It had seemed to her that the clash of powers could not have gone undetected. But as days passed with no repercussions, she had decided that the transgression had remained a secret. Master San Marté’s lecture revived her fears.

  “When one Power-Bearer pits his or her strength against another, he or she must first be fully cognizant of the limits of his or her own power and that of his or her opponent.” His careful inclusion of the feminine pronoun only annoyed Tria; she saw it as an unnecessary affectation, possibly done to be certain she knew his remarks were directed to her.

  “Furthermore, he or she must be able to calculate the energy that will be generated from the conflict between opposing forces.”

  He paused to adjust his toupee, which had slid over his left ear, and went on without shifting his gaze from Tria’s face.

  “Ethicists differ,” he said, “on whether a prearranged duel between two disputing sorcerers is acceptable if the two contestants can prove that they have considered these factors, are evenly matched, and have agreed to restrict the conflict to the safe limits determined by their calculations.” He reached up again to adjust the recalcitrant toupee. “Zoander held that where both contestants are known to be honorable and sufficiently skilled to arrive at a precise calculation of the expenditure of power, such a duel is permissible. On the other hand, Devis Saxon insists that the ideal conditions stipulated by Zoander cannot exist, and that if they could, the two sorcerers would then be wise enough to work out their differences without recourse to a power duel.”

  He cleared his throat, rose on tiptoe, and swayed back and forth as if to emphasize the next point. “Zoander himself would agree that duels fought in the heat of anger or by contestants too young or ill-trained to perform the necessary calculations are totally unethical and must be soundly condemned by the Community of the Gifted.”

  Tria squirmed beneath the little man’s constant stare.

  “You may well ask why the conduct I’ve described is so completely unethical.” He paused, and Tria nodded. Master San Marté frowned and pursed his lips. “Think back, please, to last Fiveday’s lecture. What did I declare to be the foundation of ethical use of magical power?”

  Sure the question was directed to her, Tria delved into her memory, trying to recall and remembering only that she had dozed through most of that lecture. She opened her mouth to confess her ignorance, but Coral Snow spoke up.

  “It’s to avoid harm to innocent bystanders.”

  To Tria’s immense relief, Master San Marté transferred his gaze to Coral. “Quite true, Miss Snow. Expressed another way, it is the avoidance of all unintentional harm. I trust you all recall my explanation of why our ethics are founded on the negative principle of ‘do no harm.’” This time he went on without waiting for an answer. “It is because the peripheral damage that accompanied irresponsible acts of magic provided just cause for those jealous of our abilities and wary of our powers to mount a campaign of persecution. If two gifted clash, though with good cause, and that clash results in injury or death of an uninvolved spectator, we have no defense against the charges hurled against us, and the safety of our Community is at risk.”

  But no one was hurt when Lina and I fought.

  Tria answered her own mental objection. They could have been. We weren’t taking any precautions. I don’t know the limits of my power, and I doubt that Lina knows hers.

  She had been guilty of a serious breach of ethics. Never mind that Lina had been equally or more so. What should she do about it? Confess to Headmistress? Tria shuddered at the thought.

  Perhaps she should speak to Master San Marté. If he already knew of her transgression, she could make matters no worse. But would the funny little man understand and absolve her of her guilt? He was more likely to condemn and punish.

  The bell rang and the class filed out. Tria headed for the quadrangle, and Coral Snow kept pace with her.

  “Marty-boy can really make you feel guilty when he aims his lecture at you, can’t he?” Coral said. “I saw you squirming. I was the chosen one yesterday, so I know how it feels. But don’t take it personally. Taner, my roommate, tells me that he picks on a different student every day, and every so often somebody feels so guilty he blurts out a confession. Does Marty-boy ever love that!”

  Tria felt herself blush. Coral must have guessed her thoughts. She’d been saved from making a terrible mistake.

  But she was guilty of breaking the school rules and of violating the ethics of magic.

  She spotted Lina standing by the fountain, surrounded by a coterie of male admirers. She certainly wasn’t bothered by a guilty conscience. Tria gritted her teeth at the sight of her roommate laughing at tall, good-looking Kress, reaching up to touch his cheek, turning away to cast a teasing glance at Oryon, dark and intense as ever.

  Kress doubled his fists and glared at Oryon. His rival
sneered. Lina turned back to Kress, and with a rapid motion Oryon drew a sign in the air. Kress slapped at his neck as though stung by an insect, slapped again at his cheek. Oryon grinned. Kress scowled and leaned toward the fountain, scooped up a handful of water and splashed it on his neck and cheek. The water in the fountain surged; as if caught by a sudden gust of wind, the spray blew over Oryon, drenching his black shirt.

  Lina laughed, caught both boys by the arm, and moved them away from the fountain.

  Coral grasped Tria’s elbow in a sudden painful grip. “She’s keeping them from fighting,” she said, nodding toward Lina. “But the friction. So strong. I can’t shield.” The girl seemed to be having trouble breathing. An empath. Tria hadn’t realized.

  She pried Coral’s fingers from their bruising hold and, supporting her, led her back inside. As they distanced themselves from the quadrangle, Coral’s breathing returned to normal. Tria guided her into an empty classroom, and they both sat down.

  “I’m sorry. It came over me so quickly. She’s doing it on purpose—toying with them, making them jealous of each other.” She paused, shuddered. “I think she feeds off discord. Did you see her, deliberately playing Kress against Oryon? I felt the burning darts fly between them … burning … burning …”

  “Coral, snap out of it.” Tria squeezed the girl’s hand, alarmed by her unfocused gaze and trembling voice.

  Coral shook her head. “It’s so strong. Even in here I can feel it. But, there, I’ve shielded. I’m all right.” She sat up straight. “But they aren’t. She’s goading them toward an explosion.”

  “You think they’ll use their power?”

  Coral nodded. “A duel—like Master San Marté was talking about. Too bad neither Kress nor Oryon is in that class. Or Lina. Why didn’t Headmistress put her into the Ethics class? She needs it more than anybody.”

  Tria wondered the same. “And why doesn’t Headmistress or someone on the staff do something about Lina?” She voiced the question that had been haunting her. “Why do they let her break so many rules?”

  Coral slapped her palm against the desk. “That’s what we all want to know. She doesn’t get assigned to any of the duty crews. She’s only a first-year student, but she’s taking advanced classes. And she’s using her power to attract the boys. Why don’t they stop her?”

  “Maybe they can’t stop her,” Tria blurted her suspicion. “Maybe she’s too strong.”

  Coral shook her head. “I can’t believe that.” She studied Tria as though weighing in her mind how much to confide in her. Slowly she said, “When Master San Marté was lecturing, I felt you struggling with guilt. It can’t be easy, rooming with Lina. You’ve had to use your power against her, haven’t you?”

  So. She couldn’t keep it hidden. She’d wanted to confess, but not to a fellow student. But Coral could sense the truth. Quickly, briefly, Tria told her of her contest with Lina.

  When she finished, Coral sat silent. Then she let out a low whistle. “Shape-changer! Wow! I wonder if she put that on her application. Do you suppose Headmistress doesn’t know?”

  “If she knew, she’d stop it, wouldn’t she? Or expel her?”

  “You’d think so. But who can know why Headmistress does what she does? I’m glad you’re the one who has to room with Lina. I don’t know of any other first-year student who’d be able to stand up to her. And I’m not sure about the second- and third-years.”

  A bell signaled the end of break. They rose to go to their next classes. As she left, Coral clasped Tria’s hand. “I’m glad we had the chance to talk,” she said. “You may be the only one who can stop Lina before she goads Kress and Oryon into a fight that could have tragic consequences. If they use their powers, it could even turn into a bloodbath.”

  That parting word revolved round and round in Tria’s brain as she tried to listen to Mistress Dova’s lecture. She found herself casting covert glances at Oryon, wondering whether he’d really let Lina draw him into a duel of power with Kress. Coral had to be wrong; Tria couldn’t be the only one who could stop such a contest. Her use of power against Lina had made the girl wary of her, but someone else—Headmistress, a faculty member, a higher-level student—would have to control Lina.

  Although Oryon made her uncomfortable, she scarcely knew him and knew even less about Kress. The only male students she’d become friends with were Wilce and Gray. She had never seen either of them with Lina, never noticed them stealing a glance at the catgirl. It pleased her to believe that Wilce, especially, had too much common sense to be fooled by Lina.

  She should be listening to the lecture, not thinking of Oryon or of Wilce. She yawned, rested her elbow on her desk, propped her chin on her hand, and tried to concentrate.

  “The ancient rites often required the use of a special language known only to initiates and never spoken in the presence of an outsider. More than one such language is known to have existed before magic was lost to the land, and some were more widely used than others. Some Adepts used these languages for recording the mysteries. Others inscribed spells and conjurations. Unfortunately, only a few of these books have come down to us, and some of those defy all attempts at translation. For example, the Mage Alair left us a book called the Breyadon, believed to contain both his cosmological observations, spells he used, and the records of his greatest discoveries.”

  She opened a large, flat box on her desk and reverently lifted out a leather-bound book that resembled a ledger. “This is an exact replica of the Breyadon,” she said, holding it up for the class to see. “The original is, of course, kept in a secret and well-warded place. It was preserved by the Lady Kyla, but unfortunately she did not provide a translation, though it is said that she could read it and that in that time there were others also able to do so. So far as we know, no one has that ability today.”

  Too sleepy to be impressed, Tria peered at the book through heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Many of our scholars have devoted their lives to the study of this book, but none has succeeded in deciphering it. Alair, writing about the book in the common speech, gave us the meaning of its title. Breyadon means ‘Doors.’ That is all we know. We are sure that the book is the door to a vast store of lost knowledge, if only we could find the key.”

  She laid the book on her desk and opened it. Since Tria could not see the pages from where she sat, she let her eyes drift shut while Mistress Dova continued her lecture.

  “It has long been maintained that the persona of the mage is so closely bound to the words he inscribed in the Breyadon that anyone who succeeds in translating the secret language and using its wisdom may reach the spirit of the great mage Alair himself. I do not know whether the tradition is true, but if it is, the book offers both power and peril. The user would have access not only to the wisdom contained within the book but to the mage’s own power. But the power of the mage could be used only in accordance with his principles. An attempt to wield the power in opposition to those principles would destroy the user.

  “Unfortunately, little is known of the mage Alair, and the convictions he held are a matter of scholarly controversy. My fondest desire is to achieve a breakthrough in the translation, but if I were to succeed beyond my wildest hopes, I would not dare to put its knowledge into practice.” She paused and cleared her throat.

  “That just proves what a fool she is.” Oryon’s whispered comment was directed to Davy, but Tria heard it. So did Taner, judging by her sudden scowl.

  Apparently Mistress Dova did not hear; she continued her lecture. “I will read a brief poetic passage from the Breyadon so that you may hear the sound. I can’t be certain of the pronunciation; I can only reproduce the best guess of the scholars. Let me assure you that this particular passage has been recited by careful experimenters in many places, under many conditions, without producing any effect whatever. It is safe for me to repeat it, but I adjure you not to try. Material from the ancient sages is never suitable for student experimentation.”

  To stay awake, Tri
a attempted to anchor her consciousness to Mistress Dova’s words, repeating them softly under her breath.

  In a high-pitched tone unlike her normal speaking voice, the instructor intoned the chant:

  “Bororave Anthrillosor

  Laysa Grilden Madramor

  Vernee Shushar Okravor

  Reven Simi Ith Shathor.”

  Tria drowsily whispered the final line. In her state of near sleep, her tongue tripped, transposing syllables and sounds: “Renev Misi Ish Thathor.”

  With the suddenness of summer lightning, her mind became alert and her eyes popped open.

  Walls, chalkboard, desks, students, teacher—all had vanished. She stood inside what seemed to be an immense crystal. A bright light shone through its faceted walls, sending a myriad of rainbows shimmering around her. It was a place of delicacy and utter silence where the dancing spectra offered a substitute for sound.

  Unaccountably, she felt no fear. She lifted her arms in a gesture of delight, smiled to see her rainbow-hued skin. She twirled around, disrupting the patterns of light and watching them reform as in a kaleidoscope.

  A voice spoke in her mind. Well come, daughter. Not for many eons has this lonely man had a visitor.

  Tria opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, sensing that it would be sacrilege to utter a sound in this place. Instead, carefully she formed words in her mind. How did I come to this place of wonder?

  It seemed to Tria that the dancing lights slowed, the rainbow colors dimmed. Do you not know, my daughter? Did you but tread a path forged by another?

  I—I repeated a chant from a very old book. But I got one or two words wrong, I think.

  The voice in her mind seemed to chuckle. Got them wrong? I should say that you got them right. Open your mind fully to me, daughter. Let me see from whence you come and how and why. Let me taste your power.

  It felt so profoundly right to Tria to be here and to be conversing with the unseen resident of this crystal place, she assented without fear.

  The rainbows glowed and spun, bathing her in tangible color. A burning spread outward from the center of her being, exploded through her limbs, spread beyond her in a blinding burst of white light that swallowed up the color.