The Novice

by Trudi Canavan

  Regin defended himself easily, then attacked. Soon the air within the Arena was sizzling with magic. Suddenly Sonea threw her arms wide and looked down, her attack faltering. Lorlen heard the sharp intake of breaths around him, but Sonea’s shield held under Regin’s increased attack.

  Looking at the ground under Sonea’s feet, he saw that the sand was shifting about. A disc of power was discernible beneath the soles of her boots. She was levitating just above the ground.

  Lorlen knew the tactic. A magician might expect a strike from any direction but not from below. It was tempting to end one’s shield where it met the ground to save power. Sonea’s shield had obviously extended below her feet, and her knowledge of levitation had saved her from the indignity of being sent sprawling across the Arena by the shifting and bucking sand. Levitation, he recalled, wasn’t taught until the Third Year.

  “Wise move, teaching her that,” Lorlen said.

  Yikmo shook his head. “I didn’t.”

  Sonea’s face was tense. The concentration required to levitate, shield to and attack was demanding, and her attack had changed to a simple pattern of strikes that was easy to block. Lorlen knew she ought to force Regin to use just as much power and concentration. The sand under Regin’s feet began to boil, but he simply stepped sideways. At the same time, Sonea threw her arms out again from another subterranean onslaught, and her attack faltered.

  “Halt!”

  “The second victory goes to Regin.”

  A faint cheer went up from the novices. While Regin grinned and waved at his friends, Sonea frowned, obviously annoyed with herself.

  “Good,” said Yikmo.

  Bemused, Lorlen looked at the Warrior questioningly.

  “She needed that,” Yikmo explained.

  In the short pause between bouts, Rothen looked for Dannyl among the magicians on the other side of the Arena. He had disappeared from his previous place among the Higher Magicians. Rothen frowned, torn between watching the battle and seeking out his friend.

  He had been astonished to see Dannyl arrive with Sonea, Yikmo and Akkarin. Dannyl had sent no word that he would be visiting the Guild, not even a brief mental communication. Did that mean his return had been a secret?

  Obviously it was a secret no longer. By appearing with Sonea and the High Lord, Dannyl had revealed his presence to everyone watching. But it was his appearance in company with the High Lord that bothered Rothen most. And Dannyl had sent no notes or letters for several weeks now.

  Questions followed questions. Had Rothen’s request been discovered by Akkarin? Or was Dannyl merely assisting the High Lord in an ambassadorial matter? Or was it a darker matter, and Dannyl was unaware that he was helping a black magician? Or had he discovered the truth about Akkarin?

  “Hello, old friend.”

  Jumping at the voice at his shoulder, Rothen turned around. Dannyl smiled, obviously pleased with himself for startling his mentor. He nodded to Dorrien, who greeted him warmly.

  “Dannyl! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?” Rothen demanded.

  Dannyl smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, I should have let you know. I was ordered back unexpectedly.”

  “For what?”

  The young magician looked away. “Just to report to the High Lord.”

  Called back unexpectedly just to report to the High Lord? Hearing Balkan call the start of the next bout, Rothen was torn between questioning Dannyl and watching Sonea. He turned back to watch the battle. If Dannyl was willing to discuss his meeting with Akkarin, he probably wouldn’t want to while standing in a crowd of magicians. No, Rothen decided. I will question him later.

  Regin had adopted a bold and risky defense. Instead of shielding, he directed his strikes at Sonea. As his magic hammered into hers the Arena filled with shattered streaks of energy, each too weak to bother the two novices. A few reached the Arena’s barrier and sent shivers of lightning across it. Through all this, Regin was also sending extra strikes directly at Sonea. Though she defended herself easily, it was clear that she was using more power than Regin simply by keeping her shield up.

  She countered this by increasing her attack. Regin’s ploy would only work if he caught all the strikes aimed at him. If he missed any he would have to create a shield very quickly.

  As Rothen watched, this happened: one of Sonea’s strikes slipped through. Before Rothen could suck in a breath of anticipation the strike encountered a hastily raised shield.

  Sonea began to advance on Regin, shortening the distance between them so he was forced to react faster. When the pair was only ten strides apart, Regin’s strikes suddenly appeared to reverse. He staggered backward and gave a shout of surprise. The Arena was abruptly empty of magic.

  “Halt!”

  Silence followed Balkan’s call, then a low murmuring began among the watchers.

  “The third victory goes to Sonea.”

  Magicians voiced their confusion. Rothen frowned and shook his head. “What happened?”

  “I believe Sonea’s strikes were doubled,” Dorrien said. “So that each had another strike following a moment behind it. They would have looked like a single strike from Regin’s vantage point. Regin’s defensive strikes stopped the first ones, but he didn’t have time to see the doubles.”

  Several magicians had overheard Dorrien, and were nodding to each other, impressed. Dorrien glanced at Rothen, looking smug. “She really is wonderful to watch.”

  “Yes.” Rothen nodded, then sighed as Dorrien turned away. Clearly his son was growing more enthralled with her. He had never expected to be so eager for Dorrien to return to his village.

  Balkan’s voice boomed over the buzz of voices.

  “Please return to your positions.”

  Sonea backed away from Regin.

  “Are you ready to begin the fourth bout?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the pair replied.

  A flash of light shivered over the Arena’s barrier.

  “Begin!”

  Sonea began this battle far from triumphant. The method she had used to defeat Regin had used a lot of magic. If Regin’s victory depended on him making her waste her energy, then he was winning.

  She would have to be more cautious this time. She must refuse to let herself be drawn into his tricks. She had to save her energy, for if she lost this battle she would need to survive another.

  For a while she and Regin watched each other, both of them shieldless and motionless. Then Regin’s eyes narrowed and the air filled with a thousand near-invisible heatstrikes, each only just strong enough to be counted a fatal hit if they met her inner shield. Within the rain of weaker strikes she saw some more potent ones, and created a shield strong enough to deter them all.

  But just before the strikes reached her they faded into nothing. Annoyed at Regin’s trick, she sent an identical barrage of strikes, only she let some stronger strikes batter his shield, hoping he would think she was using the same trick in return.

  He didn’t fall for it, of course, but he staggered backward, his expression strained. She felt a surge of triumph. He was tiring!

  A careful attack followed, complex yet economical. He filled the air with light, as if hoping to disguise a few stronger strikes in the dazzle of brightness. At each returning strike, she saw small signs of effort in Regin’s face and manner. He was trying to hide it, but it was clear he would be no great threat to her now.

  Watching him through the glare, she saw him wince as one of her stronger strikes reached him. Then, from above, she felt an unexpected force slam into her shield. It wavered, and then another strike, timed to come only a moment after the first, broke her shield before she could strengthen it.

  “Halt!”

  Disbelief and dismay washed over her as she realized that he had only been faking his weariness. Looking at his smug expression, she felt anger at herself for being such a fool.

  “The fourth victory goes to Regin.”

  But she knew his limits. He had to be tiring afte
r all this time.

  She closed her eyes, seeking the source of her power. It was a little diminished, but in no danger of depletion.

  Yikmo had counselled against defeating Regin with sheer strength. “If you want respect, you must show both skill and honor.”

  I’ve shown them enough skill and honor, she thought. Whatever happened in this last bout, she was not going to risk losing again by trying to conserve her strength. If she won this bout, it would only be by lasting longer than Regin.

  Which meant she would win it by strength anyway, so why not end it quickly with one ferocious attack?

  “Are you ready to begin the fifth bout?” Balkan called.

  “Yes, my lord,” she answered, Regin echoing her reply.

  “Begin.”

  She began by attacking with powerful strikes, hoping to gauge Regin’s stamina. Regin neatly sidestepped all, her strikes flashing harmlessly into the Arena’s barrier.

  Sonea stared at Regin, who returned her look with feigned innocence. Dodging and ducking were considered bad form in battle, but no rules existed against them. She was surprised that he would resort to either, but that was what he’d anticipated. He had done it simply so that she used up her power in a useless attack. Regin smiled. The sand around his feet stirred.

  A murmuring began in the crowd as sand began to rise from the floor of the Arena. Sonea watched, wondering what Regin was doing—and why. Yikmo hadn’t mentioned any tactic that involved this. In fact, he’d said that projection was irrelevant in a formal battle.

  Sand was whipping around the Arena now. It thickened rapidly, filling the air with a thin wailing. Sonea frowned as Regin disappeared from sight. Soon she could see nothing but white.

  Then something more potent buffeted her shield. Judging the direction, she threw out a strike, but another attack hit her from behind, then a third from above.

  He’s blinded me, she realized. Somewhere beyond the sand, he was moving around the Arena, or directing his strikes to curve and hit from different directions. She couldn’t fight back when she didn’t know where he was.

  But that wouldn’t matter, if she aimed in all directions at once.

  Drawing on her power, she sent out a spray of potent strikes. The sand abruptly dropped around her, forming a ring on the ground. Regin had centered the sandstorm on her. So that was how he knew where I was.

  He stood on the other side of the Arena, watching her carefully. Seeing him, she knew he was trying to judge how tired she was.

  I’m not.

  As she attacked, he dodged again. She felt a smile pull at her lips. If Regin wanted to waste her power, she would have him running all over the Arena like a frightened rassook. Eventually she would catch him.

  Or she could curve her strikes around the Arena so he had nowhere to run.

  Yes. Let’s finish this.

  She half-closed her eyes and focused on the source of her power. Drawing on all but a little of the magic she had left, she formed in her mind a pattern both beautiful and deadly. Then she lifted her arms. It didn’t matter if she let her intentions show now. As she released the magic, she knew it was the most potent force she had ever let loose. She sent it outward in three waves of forcestrikes, each more powerful than the previous.

  She heard a low sound from the audience as the strikes rayed out like a bright, dangerous flower, then curved down toward Regin.

  Regin’s eyes widened. He backed away, but there was nowhere to go. As the first strikes hit, his shield shattered.

  A heartbeat later the second wave hit the inner shield. Regin’s expression changed from surprise to terror. He glanced at Lord Garrel, then threw up his arms as the third wave of strikes hit.

  As they did, Sonea heard an exclamation. She recognized the voice as Garrel’s. The inner shield around Regin wavered…

  …but remained in place.

  Turning to stare at Regin’s guardian, Sonea saw him press his hands to his temples and sway. Akkarin’s hand rested on the magician’s shoulder.

  Then a soft thump drew her attention back to the Arena. Sonea felt her heart skip as she saw Regin lying on the sand. All was silent. She waited for him to move, but he remained still. Surely he was just exhausted. He couldn’t be…dead.

  She took a step toward him.

  “Halt!”

  Frozen by the command, she looked up at Balkan questioningly. The Warrior frowned as if in warning.

  Then Regin groaned and the watching magicians let out a collective sigh. Closing her eyes, Sonea felt relief rush over her.

  “Sonea has won the challenge,” Balkan announced.

  Slowly, then with more enthusiasm, the watching magicians and novices began to cheer. Surprised, Sonea looked around.

  I’ve won, she thought. I actually won!

  She surveyed the cheering magicians, novices, and non-magicians: perhaps more than just the fight. But she wouldn’t be certain of that until later, when she walked down the University corridor and heard what the novices were muttering, or when she encountered Regin and his friends in one of the passages late at night.

  “I declare this formal contest concluded,” Balkan announced. Stepping down from the portal, he joined Garrel and Akkarin. Garrel nodded at something the Warrior said, then began to walk around the Arena toward the entrance, his eyes on the still-prone figure of Regin.

  Sonea regarded Regin thoughtfully. Moving closer, she saw that his face was white and he appeared to be asleep. Clearly he was exhausted, and she knew how awful that felt. But never in all the times she had been exhausted had she fallen unconscious.

  Hesitantly, in case he was faking, she crouched beside him and gingerly touched his forehead. His exhaustion was so extreme, his body was in shock from it. She let a little Healing energy flow from her hand into his body to strengthen it.

  “Sonea!”

  She looked up to find Garrel staring down at her disapprovingly.

  “What are—?”

  “Ngh…” the boy groaned.

  Ignoring Garrel, she looked down to see Regin’s eyes fluttering open. He stared at her, then his brow creased into a frown.

  “You?”

  Sonea smiled wryly and rose. She bowed to Garrel, then walked past him and into the cool of the Arena’s portal.

  Though most of the audience was leaving, the Higher Magicians lingered beside the Arena. They had gathered into a rough circle to discuss the fight.

  “Her powers have grown faster than I would have thought possible,” Lady Vinara said.

  “Her strength is astounding for one her age,” Sarrin agreed.

  “If she is so strong, why didn’t she simply wear Regin down at the beginning?” Peakin asked. “Why did she try to conserve her strength? It lost her two bouts.”

  “Because the object of this was not for Sonea to win,” Yikmo said quietly. “But for Regin to lose.”

  Peakin regarded the Warrior dubiously. “And the difference is?”

  Lorlen smiled at the Alchemist’s confusion. “If she had simply beaten him down, she would not have gained anyone’s respect. By winning and losing bouts based on skill, she showed that she was willing to fight fairly despite her advantage.”

  Vinara nodded. “She didn’t know how strong she really was, did she?”

  Yikmo smiled. “No. She didn’t. Only that she was stronger. If she’d known just how strong she was, it would have been difficult for her to allow herself to lose.”

  “So how strong is she?”

  Yikmo looked pointedly at Lorlen, then over Lorlen’s shoulder. Turning, Lorlen saw that Balkan and Akkarin were approaching. He knew it was not Balkan that Yikmo had been looking at.

  “Perhaps you have taken on more than even you can handle, High Lord,” Sarrin said.

  Akkarin smiled. “Not likely.”

  Lorlen watched the others exchange glances. Not one face expressed disbelief. A lack of comprehension, perhaps.

  “You’ll have to start teaching her yourself soon,” Vinara adde
d.

  Akkarin shook his head. “All she needs, she can learn in the University. There is nothing else that I can teach her that she would care to learn—for now.”

  Lorlen felt a sudden chill creep up his body. He looked closely at Akkarin, but nothing in the High Lord’s expression hinted at what he feared.

  “I can’t see her understanding or liking the battles and intrigues of the Houses,” Vinara agreed, “though the idea of the Guild electing its first High Lady is quite interesting.”

  Sarrin frowned. “Let’s not forget her origins.”

  As Vinara’s gaze sharpened, Lorlen cleared his throat. “Hopefully that will not be an issue for many years.” He glanced at Akkarin, but the High Lord’s attention was elsewhere. Lorlen followed his gaze and saw Sonea approaching.

  As the circle of magicians parted to receive her, Sonea bowed.

  “Congratulations, Sonea,” Balkan rumbled. “It was a well-fought battle.”

  “Thank you, Lord Balkan,” she replied, her eyes brightening.

  “How are you feeling?” Lady Vinara asked.

  Sonea tilted her head, considering, then shrugged. “Hungry, my lady.”

  Vinara laughed. “Then I hope your guardian has a celebration banquet waiting for you.”

  If Sonea’s smile became a little forced, the others did not appear to notice. They were looking at Akkarin, who had turned to face her.

  “Well done, Sonea,” he said.

  “Thank you, High Lord.”

  The pair regarded each other in silence, then Sonea lowered her eyes. Watching the others carefully, Lorlen noted Vinara’s knowing smile. Balkan looked amused and Sarrin was nodding approvingly.

  Lorlen sighed. They saw only a young novice awed and intimidated by her powerful guardian. Would they ever see anything more? He looked down at the red gem on his finger. If they do, I won’t be the one to show them. I am as much a hostage as she is.

  He looked at Akkarin and narrowed his eyes. When he gets around to explaining himself, he’d better have a very good reason for all this.

  Opening the door to his room, Dannyl gestured for Rothen to enter, then followed and closed the door. Inside, it was dark, and though it all looked clean and free of dust there was a smell of neglect in the air. His trunk had been deposited just inside the bedroom.