A School for Sorcery (Arucadi Series Book 6)

by E. Rose Sabin

  “Nubba?”

  The head lifted, revealing a tear-streaked and swollen face.

  “Nubba, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you inside?”

  “The Shalreg,” the girl whimpered. “It won’t let me in.”

  “By the Seven Levels, Nubba,” Tria snapped. “You let that thing keep you from the Gifting?”

  Nubba’s shoulders shook. “You wouldn’t talk like that if you could see the vile ogre,” she got out between sobs.

  “Never mind,” Tria interrupted before Nubba could launch into the familiar description of the fanged, slobbering, scaled creature.

  Resisting the impulse to leave Nubba blubbering on the steps, Tria helped her classmate to her feet. “Come on, we’ll go in together.”

  She dragged the quaking Nubba toward the entrance.

  “It’s still there,” Nubba wailed.

  Drat the foolish girl! This was not the Shalreg’s usual well-timed appearance. Nubba had no reason to invoke its presence now.

  They reached the open door. Through it, Tria could see the double line of graduates filing toward the dais where the gifts were displayed. With a sinking heart, she measured the dwindling line. Over half the graduates had already selected their gifts.

  Clutching Nubba’s arm, she stepped through the entrance. A giant hand pressed against her chest, shoving her to the ground. The Shalreg? Tria’s trembling hands traced warding signs in the air.

  “See. I told you!” Nubba’s dolorous cry brought Tria to her feet. She dusted off her gown.

  “I’ll find a way to get us both through,” Tria vowed. She dragged Nubba back toward the unseen barrier and extended one hand, half expecting sharp talons to grab her.

  Instead, her fingers slid along the weave of a net pulled taut across the entranceway. No monster but a warding field barred their way. A faculty member must have set it to prevent late entries from marring the Gifting Ceremony.

  She stepped back while Nubba sniveled at her side. Dare she disturb the field? If she did not, she’d miss the Gifting. So would Nubba. Surely the net was to keep out tardy spectators, not participants.

  “Stand in front of me, Nubba.” Tria accompanied her order with a guiding shove and extended her arms on either side of her classmate. “Keep quiet.”

  Weaving hex signs with her fingers, Tria chanted a counterspell to break the warding. Her fingers burned; a tracery of sparks made the ward-net visible for a brief instant. She and Nubba moved forward but were brought short again; the net held.

  Nubba groaned. From inside, Tria heard the murmur of voices. The Gifting continued; the last of the graduates approached the dais. Tria gritted her teeth.

  “Don’t make a sound,” she again instructed Nubba. She screwed her face in concentration and recalled the glimpse of shimmering net. Her inner vision focused on a single minute opening between the tightly woven threads of force. Holding that eyelet in the center of her mind-vision, she pictured it expanding, slowly at first, then rapidly until it became a window large enough to step through. Tria pushed Nubba forward, felt for and found the opening, boosted Nubba through it, and jumped through after her.

  Together they raced past startled spectators to the end of the procession. Tria smoothed her wrinkled gown and ran her fingers through her long hair, parrying with a smile the scandalized stares of the four classmates waiting to be gifted. Grateful that their presence shielded her and Nubba from Headmistress’s sight, she nodded pleasantly to each.

  The dour-faced Salor returned her nod without a smile. Tria wasn’t surprised to see Salor so near the end of the procession. Quiet and shy, he always deferred to the others. Tria guessed that empathy with Salor’s solitary nature as well as the fact that he was, like her, a healer had led Verin to position herself at his side.

  Wilce smiled and bowed at both Tria and Nubba. His place at line’s end probably meant he had gallantly permitted all the others to go before him. Tria was glad he had been able to complete his studies this year despite the time he had lost. Gray had not been so fortunate; he’d remain another year.

  Tria was surprised to see Taner at Wilce’s side; it would have been more like the fiery-tempered girl to claim first place in the line.

  Salor and Verin climbed the three steps to the dais, knelt before Headmistress, received her blessing, and walked to the table on which the gifts were spread. Tria and Nubba moved forward together.

  Now Tria could see the gifts.

  Regal in a wide-flowing azure gown, Mistress Blake in her role as Gifting Mistress greeted the graduates with a hand raised in benison and said, “Select your gift.”

  “There’s hardly anything left.” Nubba’s dismayed whisper echoed Tria’s thought.

  Salor passed his hand above each article on the table. Like a bird, the hand hovered, soared on, hovered again, swooped down, and seized its prey.

  The Gifting Mistress smiled. “Well chosen, Salor,” she said when the hand lifted, clutching a small red book fitted with a silver clasp. “That gift will serve you well. The Book of Truth will complement your skill of physical healing. When you face someone in need of healing of the soul, read to that one a page from your book, and you will read into the patient’s mind a mending and the strength to know and speak truth.”

  A rare smile illumined Salor’s face. Clasping the book to his breast, he joined his fellow graduates at the rear of the dais.

  Verin chose her gift quickly. She raised her hand toward the Gifting Mistress; a golden chain wound through her fingers. From it hung a gem like a drop of blood.

  Again the Gifting Mistress nodded her approval. “The greatest of healers must sometimes fail. But when you are called to tend one who, in the prime of life, lies wounded or ill past all your skill to save, collect the tears of those who weep for the dying. Pour those tears on the gem and touch it to the lips of the dying one. If the tears come from hearts which truly grieve, the gem will restore life.”

  Verin slipped the chain around her neck and followed Salor to the rear of the dais.

  Wilce and Taner advanced to kneel before Headmistress and, after she blessed them, rose and moved on to the Gifting Table.

  Wilce selected a large, heavy staff, its sturdy wood carved with geometrical patterns. Mistress Blake glowed; her eyes reflected the soft-hued light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

  “That staff will bear your weight as you walk the world, bringing peace to troubled lands. Suffering has taught you great wisdom; your voice will avert wars and bring accord and reconciliation. But powerful forces will oppose you—all the evil things which feed on hatred and discord. This staff is carved with powerful warding signs; it is your defense against those evil ones.”

  Leaning on his staff, Wilce went solemnly to join the rest.

  Taner snatched up a dagger with a curved blade and jeweled hilt. Her eyes glinting, she held it high.

  Shadows flickered over the Gifting Mistress’s face.

  “Taner, you have a quick temper and a haughty spirit. You wear scars on your soul as well as on your face. Yet you have learned to curb and channel your wrath. We send you forth to avenge wrongs against the innocent. You know potions and spells to bring sorrow to those who have caused sorrow and weakness to those who have preyed on the weak. You have no need of a dagger, yet you have desired one. You have attained your desire.” She paused. Taner averted her eyes from the Mistress’s piercing gaze. “It is meant to defend and preserve life. Let it be an emblem of victory, not an instrument of death. Use it wisely.”

  Taner bowed her head. “I promise to do so,” she murmured.

  The rear of the platform was full; Nubba and Tria alone remained in front. They knelt before Headmistress. Tria scarcely heard her charge. As she had climbed the steps, a glance at the Gifting Table had shown her only one gift lying on the dusty black marble.

  “Receive your gifts, my daughters,” Headmistress concluded.

  Tria preceded Nubba to the table. Her dismay was tempered with relief. The solit
ary gift, a spyglass, must be hers, designed to complement her cross-dimensional vision.

  She reached for the glass, hesitated, glancing at Mistress Blake. A frown puckered the Gifting Mistress’s forehead. Tria drew her hand back, and Nubba grabbed the glass and clasped it to her bosom with a defiant look.

  “You have the gift intended for you, Nubba.” Mistress Blake’s voice was stern. “No one will take it from you.”

  A deep flush spread over Nubba’s features; her chin quivered. Watching her, Tria set her jaw, determined to hide her disappointment.

  The Gifting Mistress sighed. “We have taught you so little, Nubba. You must learn how to use your gift. Look through it.”

  Nubba brought the small end of the glass to her eye and adjusted the focus while inscribing a wide arc with the large end of the glass.

  She froze. The glass pointed toward the floor at the foot of the dais steps. A violent trembling seized her.

  “The Shalreg!” Echoes of her scream bounced off the vaulted ceiling.

  Tria followed the aim of the spyglass but saw nothing. Nubba, screaming, backed against the Gifting Table, her face contorted with terror.

  Tria concentrated her vision on the spot where Nubba looked. Was that, perhaps, something on the floor? A barely visible insect? A speck of dirt? She closed her ears to the sound of Nubba’s shrieks and shut out the sight of the bewildered spectators. Most of all, she banished the thought of the empty Gifting Table. Her mind centered on the speck, enlarging it.

  She shrank back in horror, recognizing the hideous apparition from Nubba’s interminable descriptions: the whirling, multifaceted eyes, the dripping fangs, the body armored with tight-fitting scales, the spiked legs ending in sharp pincers.

  The monster lunged toward her, pincers clicking. Tria snapped the cord of her concentration. The creature sank back into near invisibility.

  Tria snatched the spyglass from Nubba’s frozen hand, reversed it, and pressed the large end to Nubba’s eye. “Look, Nubba. Look at the Shalreg again.”

  Fearfully Nubba peered through the glass. A confused expression spread over her face. Hands shaking, she moved the spyglass around, searching for her nemesis. Tria grasped the spyglass, pointed it toward the minuscule monster, and held it steady.

  Nubba’s mouth fell open; the arch of her eyebrows imitated the vaulted ceiling. She stared through the inverted spyglass for a long moment. With a shout, she bounded off the platform, spyglass to her eye, and stomped hard on the floor, dancing a jig around the spot at which the glass was trained. She ended the bizarre performance with a triumphant song.

  “The Shalreg’s dead. I killed it. By myself I killed it. I’ve won; I’m free. The Shalreg’s dead.”

  Spectators stared in openmouthed puzzlement. The group of graduates reacted with embarrassed sniggers. Nubba danced up the stairs and made a jaunty curtsy to the Gifting Mistress.

  Mistress Blake smiled. “You’ve discovered how to use your gift to shrink your own fears to a conquerable size. Your glass will reduce fear and will magnify opportunity. It does not lie; it restores objects to their true proportions. Many are like you, Nubba—imprisoned by their own distorted perceptions, needing a corrected view of reality. Seek them out and share your gift.”

  Beaming, Nubba joined her classmates.

  Tria stood alone before the Gifting Mistress. She trembled, conscious of her soiled and torn dress, recognizing her unworthiness.

  Mistress Blake’s clear gaze swept over her. “You come late.”

  Tria hung her head. “I’m sorry. When I was leaving the school, halls and doors and stairways opened to me, and I had no time to explore them. I tried to come straight through, but I got lost.” With a deep twinge of regret, Tria added, looking at the empty table, “I guess I should have stayed and traversed them all.”

  Mistress Blake gave an enigmatic smile. “You’ve journeyed farther than you realize.” Holding her palms downward, she spread her hands wide over the empty table. The motion sent dust motes whirling in the rays of colored light. “Each of your classmates has selected his or her gift; all that remains is yours.”

  Was the Gifting Mistress mocking her? Tria’s shoulders slumped. Her eyes swam with tears at the sight of the black marble table, its emptiness accentuated by the thin layer of dust.

  The organist sent the strains of the recessional echoing through the hall. Numb with disappointment, Tria stood immobile while the graduates followed Headmistress from the platform. Most averted their gaze as they passed Tria, but Verin brushed her with a pitying glance. Nubba hesitated, but gripped her spyglass and hurried after the rest.

  Mistress Blake took her place at the rear. The procession swept down the aisle and out of the assembly hall. The audience filed out. Many cast curious looks at Tria, but none approached her. The organ music ceased.

  A tear spilled down Tria’s face and splashed onto the table, inundating a mote of dust.

  Her sight blurred, then cleared and focused on a tiny, water-cloaked world spinning in inky blackness. She knelt and breathed on it, blowing off some of the water, stretched forth one finger to touch it, watched it swarm with life. With gentle care, she flicked it upward to join the galaxy dancing in a gleam of golden light.

  Tracing its spinning progress, her enhanced vision saw oceans and continents, swirling clouds and belching volcanoes, blistering deserts and steaming jungles. Beneath her nurturing gaze, creatures of the teeming seas blundered out onto land and established themselves, sunning on rocks, slithering through grass, bounding up mountains, swinging through trees, spreading wings and soaring into the clouds.

  “The worlds are born of dust and the tears of the gods.”

  Startled, Tria looked up. Veronica stood on the other side of the table. “You already know the loneliness of the life to which you are called,” she said. “Your gift shows you its beauty and power.” She smiled and held her hands toward Tria. “Welcome to the Seventh Level.”

  EPILOGUE

  Tria wept at the appearance of the tiny world she had set in motion. For no more than a few moments, she had forgotten it. In those few moments, forests had turned to desert, mountains had split asunder, sending lava and ash over all the surrounding land; rivers and lakes had dried. The oceans stank. Creatures fought and tore at one another until few remained alive.

  Her tears sweetened the oceans and filled the rivers and lakes. Her breath calmed the warring creatures. New growth appeared and nibbled away at the deserts.

  She sighed with relief. This time she had saved it. But there would not be many more such times, she knew.

  “Is it real?” she asked Veronica.

  “What is reality?” the Adept answered. “The world is as real as you are.”

  “How real is that?” Tria asked with a touch of bitterness. “I’m still not sure who I am. I was only a reflection—until, suddenly, I was the only one left. Did that make me real?”

  “You were always real. If the word has any meaning.” Her eyes twinkled. “When you can define ‘reality’ you will have surpassed me. When the other selves died and reunited with you, it made you no more real than you already were, or than they had been. What it did was increase your power, because they added their levels to yours. Now see to your charge. You’re neglecting it again.”

  With a guilty start, Tria turned back to the tiny world. Again it needed extra care to recover from her brief inattention.

  “What will happen to it when I sleep?” she asked. “Or eat? Or even think of something else for longer than a minute or two?”

  “It will perish,” Veronica said. “It is destined to be short-lived. Your first test as an Adept is to see how long your care can sustain it. The effort will hone your talents. When, despite all you do, it dissolves into nothingness, your grief will teach you wisdom.”

  “And then?” Tria cupped her hand protectively around her tiny world.

  “Ah, then.” Veronica chuckled. “Who knows? The school could use another maid.”

&
nbsp; LESLEY SIMONTON SCHOOL

  FOR THE MAGICALLY GIFTED:

  PERSONNEL AND STUDENTS

  HEADMISTRESS

  Miryam Vedreaux

  FACULTY

  Aletheia - Specialist in Interdimensional Concourse

  Mistress Blake - Gifting Mistress, expert in the development of all supernormal gifts

  Mistress Dova - Professor of Arcane Rites

  and Esoterica; Librarian

  Master Hawke - Professor of Alchemy,

  the Mandala, and the Healing Arts

  Master San Marté - Professor of Ethics

  Master Tumberlis - “Old Tumbles” -Professor of

  the History and Philosophy of Metaphysics

  “MAID”

  Veronica Crowell

  STUDENT BODY

  First Year Students

  Women:Men:

  Bettina BarkerTonyo Deste

  Eula ClaverJerrol Fyfe

  Irel LaneDavy Geer

  Lina MuellerEmory Knight

  Coral SnowReece O’Shannon

  Petra StratigeasFenton Rhoze

  Tria TesserellNevil Santomayor

  Rehanne ZalosBritnor Wythyn

  Second Year Students

  Women:Men:

  Nubba BalderGray Becq

  Elspeth CarlinOryon Brew

  Norietta EldenKress Klemmer

  Kathyn KlemmerPalmer Lawry

  Taner MayclanSalor Tribane

  Verin SavrileWilce Riverman

  Third Year Students

  Women:Men:

  Nan EversYosef Byne

  Helena HerrellEvyar Mason

  Rozelle ShepherdMerjoe Pease

  Adeen YontCleance Vomai

  Following is an excerpt from

  When the Beast Hungers,