by Pirateaba
“Will do. See you Calvaron, Mons. Beatrice.”
Ceria waved and walked away. She levitated her plates into a wicker bin designed to hold them—a new addition to the banquet hall after the [Chefs] complained they were running out of dishes since students would pile them up ten feet into the air rather than send them into the kitchen—and walked out of the banquet hall.
By now, Ceria knew most of the academy back to front. The only places she hadn’t gone were the highest levels and deep into the bowels of the academy. It was still dangerous to wander in those places incautiously, but Ceria knew all the best shortcuts everywhere else.
So in less than five minutes, she was standing outside a door from which cold emanated. Ceria rapped on the frozen surface, ignoring the chill that made other students and mages hurry past her. She’d long since learned several spells to help with the cold.
After a moment, the door opened. A woman walked out. She nodded to Ceria—Ceria nodded back.
“You have eaten?”
“Just now. Do you want to have breakfast first or—?”
“Let’s go.”
Illphres walked down the corridor slowly. Ceria followed. Her relationship with her master, Illphres, was a simple one. Illphres ordered and Ceria usually obeyed. They didn’t waste time with greetings or chitchat, mainly because Illphres had no tolerance for it.
“Hey master.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Illphres turned and scowled at Ceria. The half-Elf took the glare unfazed.
“I get called ‘Professor Springwalker’ because of you. If I get called names, so do you.”
Illphres paused. She moved her hand past her mouth, and when she lowered it, she was smiling.
“They call you that? Hah.”
“It’s your fault.”
Ceria scowled as the woman turned and kept walking slowly down the corridors. Illphres just shrugged.
“So?”
“Most masters don’t make their apprentices teach their classes for them.”
“They should. It’s convenient.”
Ceria glowered. That was the thing about Illphres. She didn’t care at all about your feelings, and in fact seemed to delight in annoying other people.
And she usually came up with inventive ways to do it. Not that she’d deliberately gotten herself a teaching position for another year on purpose—that was just politics. But it had definitely been Illphres’ idea to make Ceria do the teaching instead.
Most masters made their apprentices get them food, or clean their rooms, organize their notes, assist with spellcasting and so on. But Illphres hated for anyone to do any of that for her—she wouldn’t let Ceria pull her seat out for her. And yet, she had no problems ordering Ceria to spend half her day teaching and preparing her next lesson for students when it suited her.
“I’ve barely had time to practice with all my lessons, you know.”
“But you do practice, don’t you?”
“Of course!”
“Hmm. We’ll see.”
Illphres led Ceria to a well-used set of rooms, looking at glowing stones on the doors until she found one that wasn’t lit.
“In here.”
They entered into the practice room. It was just an empty room, really. Some had furniture or other objects that could be used for magic practice, but most were just empty. This one had a white marble floor—enchanted of course, to protect against the spells mages would test in here.
Illphres paused in the center of the room and turned to face Ceria.
“Now, attack me.”
There was no warm up, no preamble. Ceria just raised her finger and started casting magic.
“[Ice Dart]! [Ice Spike]! [Frost Arrows]!”
The spells shot from her fingers in the form of deadly shards of ice, some as long as Ceria’s forearm and twice as wide. They shattered harmlessly on the sheets of thick ice that had materialized in front of Illphres. The woman let the slabs of ice hover around her, creating a multi-layered shield Ceria strove to break.
Her [Ice Dart] spell did little to the thick ice, for all it was a rain of projectiles. Ceria’s newly learned [Ice Spike] spell created a few cracks, but the heavier shots didn’t do much. And her final spell, a storm of fourteen arrows that shattered against the ice barrier and left Ceria gasping for air—did nothing.
“All done?”
“Yeah.”
Ceria gasped for air and wiped at her brow, despite the chill in the air. Illphres let the icy barrier around her dissipate, the ice melting into water which vanished, and nodded.
“Not bad. If you ignore the fact that you’d be dead if any of your opponents knew magic of their own or had a bow.”
That stung. Ceria looked up, glowering at Illphres.
“Most students my year can’t cast a Tier 3 spell half as many times as I can! My offense is fine—”
“But your defense is terrible. Why didn’t you raise [Barrier of the Winds] before casting?”
“I don’t know it yet. You’re the one who told me to focus on ice magic! Why don’t you teach me [Frozen Shield] instead?”
Illphres’ face didn’t change, but the tone of her voice was definitely a sneer.
“Bah. [Frozen Shield] is a terrible spell. Just buy a real shield if you want to block something. You’ll be better off learning [Wall of Ice] when you’re at a higher level.”
The two mages continued to argue as Ceria and Illphres took a position facing the far wall. Illphres made colored targets of ice appear and Ceria hit them, Illphres correcting her as they bickered.
“Don’t I get a say in what I learn?”
“Of course not. You’re an idiot whereas I know what spells are best. Your [Ice Spike] spell is flawed—see there? Correct it.”
Ceria gritted her teeth as she did.
“Why won’t you teach me more advanced spells? I want to learn more, not keep practicing one spell over and over!”
“Mastery of the [Ice Spike] spell is key to learning the [Glacial Spear] spell. Besides, you don’t need variety—you need to perfect the basics first.”
Ceria grumbled under her breath and her ears drooped, but she finished practicing without any more complaints. Illphres was an excellent teacher even if she taught in much the same style as her element. Slowly, exactingly, choosing to perfect every spell before moving on to the next one. Still, Ceria couldn’t complain. She had an excellent teacher. Although she sometimes wondered…
As Illphres was walking towards the door without a word of goodbye, Ceria called out.
“Master.”
“Call me that again and I’ll freeze your toes off.”
Illphres turned, her face a scowl. Ceria shrugged insolently.
“…Master, why do you need two enchanted items to protect against the cold? I know it’s not for me.”
The ice mage scowled deeper, reshaping the ice mask on her face to do so.
“Of course it’s not for you. If you couldn’t handle my cold spells by now I’d have gotten rid of you already.”
“Then who is it for? I talked to Calvaron, but he says it’ll be a week or two before he can find anything.”
Illphres hesitated. Ceria waited, hoping she would get an actual reply. Illphres’ eyes pierced her apprentice, and she seemed to come to a conclusion.
“Maybe you’re ready. But—”
She glanced around the empty room meaningfully. There was no one to listen in, but Ceria knew that an eavesdropping spell might not be detectable even if they cast [Detect Magic].
“I will tell you later.”
Ceria nodded and asked no more. She felt happy Illphres was willing to confide in her. Usually the woman just gave her orders and suffered no question. But perhaps she was trusting Ceria more? They’d been master and apprentice for over half a year now, and Ceria felt like she knew Illphres almost as well as anyone in the academy.
Drained from her practice session with the woman, Ceria exited the practice room, walking
slowly down the hallways. She did not walk back towards Illphres’ room where she now had her own quarters. Instead, Ceria took a familiar route, one she hadn’t used in a long time. She walked down to the first level, and soon found herself standing next to a familiar door.
Pisces still lived in the same room he had when they were first-year students. He had no master. Ceria knew the room she had used to live in—and indeed, most of the rooms around his—were empty.
She stared for a long time at the door. Thinking. At last, she raised her hand to knock. Ceria hesitated.
Then she turned and walked slowly away.
—-
Ceria had no intention of talking to Pisces. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle the meeting, it was just that she didn’t want to speak with him. But fate conspired against her, or perhaps it was the finite amount of space even in a place as large as Wistram.
About a month later, Ceria found a knot of students and raised voices that was the sure sign of a duel, either magical or verbal, going on in one of the hallways. Pushing her way into the group, Ceria saw the duel was of the latter kind, and going on between a fourth-year student and—
Pisces.
Ceria’s heart skipped a beat when she saw him. Pisces was standing across from his opponent in a ring of bodies, speaking loudly. He had changed much since she’d seen him last.
Gone were Pisces’ rapier and the silver bell. It now belonged to Timor du Havrington, Ceria knew. And gone was Pisces’ smile, and indeed his normally semi-neat appearance.
Now his robes were dirty, a sign that he had little time or inclination to clean. They looked slept in, and ragged. Pisces had no coin to buy new ones. Ceria listened as the other student, a loudly-speaking cross between a dog and man—one of the Beastkin—concluded his point.
“—and so your foul practice drags down the status of mages everywhere. No nation respects a [Necromancer], and thus, why should Wistram? Why should we condone a school of magic condemned by the entire world?”
A murmur of agreement ran through the students listening to the debate. Ceria saw Pisces draw himself up. His posture was different. He hunched his shoulders more, and glared at his opponent as he sniffed and launched his counter argument.
“Necromancers have no place in the world? Who decides such things? Popular opinion? If that is the case, I must inquire, what of Archmage Nekhret? Was she undeserving of her title despite being tainted, as you seem to insinuate, by the foul practice of necromancy? She was a true [Archmage], not some pretender to the class! She represented the soul of Wistram over a thousand years ago—her bones still lie in the catacombs below the academy itself!”
“She lived over a thousand years ago!”
“Age is immaterial! My point is that she was an Archmage, someone who represented Wistram. Should she be condemned? No—more broadly speaking, can any group of mages be condemned for the actions of a few? I put to you, what about the actions of the infamous Burning Killer, Calico, who was just caught and executed in Chandrar? Do his actions define mages as a whole? Should we look askance at every [Pyromancer] because of him? Let me ask to you this question—”
As she watched, Ceria knew Pisces would lose. His arguments were sound, but he had lost his audience, probably before the debate had begun. When they voted, the group of students chosen to listen to the debate all voted unanimously. Pisces had lost, and so the winner collected his spoils—a small bag that might have had coin or something else—and walked away without another word.
The students dispersed, leaving Pisces to stare murderously at the ground. Ceria approached half-unwillingly. She hesitated before she spoke, but she did speak.
“I hope you didn’t bet anything valuable on that debate.”
Pisces’ head jerked up. He stared at Ceria in disbelief.
“Ceria?”
She met his gaze levelly. The shock faded and Pisces’ expression returned to normal. Now it was a bitter scowl and a sardonic crook of the mouth that was supposed to be a smile. He turned away from her, brushing at his robes.
“Ah, you mean the debate? I wagered nothing of consequence, I assure you. I am…used to the bias of the masses even when presented with the most rational of arguments.”
“So I see. Why bother debating at all, then?”
He glanced back at her haughtily.
“I suppose it is to prove that I have a voice, and perhaps to sway opinions. They are bound under a truth spell to vote for whomever presents the best case, you know.”
“But they hate necromancy.”
“Not all! I have had a few vote in my favor—”
Pisces paused. He sniffed again, and frowned at Ceria.
“Not that it matters. Why, pray tell, have you sought me out?”
“I didn’t. I was just walking and saw a debate was going on.”
“I see.”
The two stared at each other. Ceria shifted from foot to foot as Pisces stared over her shoulder. It was…so hard to see him like this. At last, Ceria sighed.
“I talked to Mons a while ago. She says she studies with you.”
“Mons? Ah—she does. She hires me on occasion to provide her with instruction.”
“That’s good. For you, I mean.”
“Yes, it does…help.”
More silence. After a moment, Pisces cleared his throat.
“You know, I am studying combat magic in my spare time.”
“Really? I thought you gave up dueling.”
“Ah, yes, well, I cannot seem to find a match. I have no desire to duel practiced mages and I seem to be boycotted by all other students—but I am attempting to refine what spells I know. Mons claims to have benefitted greatly from practicing with me.”
Ceria tried to smile, but all she did was lift the corners of her mouth.
“That’s great, Pisces.”
“Indeed. You are—you would be welcome to join us if you had the time. I realize you may be somewhat preoccupied with your classes, but…”
Part of her wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t. Slowly, Ceria shook her head.
“I don’t think we’re friends anymore, Pisces.”
He looked her in the eyes then. She saw hurt and pain in his, but Pisces didn’t say what was clearly on the tip of his tongue. He was about to, but bit back the words. Then his eyes focused on Ceria’s again.
“In that case, are we enemies?”
He stared at her, searching for something, eyes gaunt and bloodshot, his robes dirty. Ceria felt a pang in her heart and glared at him.
“Don’t be stupid.”
She whirled and walked angrily away. But Ceria knew Pisces was smiling, just a tiny bit, behind her. She murmured under her breath.
“We couldn’t be enemies.”
—-
Four days later, Ceria found herself sitting at a table with Illphres and four other mages. She was nervous, terrified out of her mind, and nearly knocked over her drink twice when she reached for it.
Illphres glared at her.
“Stop fidgeting.”
“I don’t see how she could, with you glaring at her so, Illphres.”
A tall Dullahan seated next to Ceria said that. His name was Jurix, and he was a powerful mage specializing in combat magic and physical reinforcement magic. Sitting across from Ceria, a Drake named Bastam winked at her reassuringly. Ophelia, the Stitch-woman smiled at Ceria, and the last mage, another Dullahan named Qum, nodded impassively at her.
That made Ceria feel a bit better, but she was still on pins and needles in the presence of so many important mages. She was sitting in the banquet hall, but at one of the tables usually claimed by older mages. It was made of some kind of expensive wood and the chairs were clearly expensive, if a bit worn, but Ceria would have preferred cushions.
And yet, it suited these mages well, because these five were all individuals who commanded quite a bit of influence and power of their own within Wistram. Each one was old; Ophelia, the youngest, was in her early thirties
and Bastam, the oldest, was in his sixties, although he didn’t look it.
Any one of them—including Illphres—could cause an upset if they threw their influence into a political fight. Three of them were Isolationists—Bastam, Jurix, and Ilphres, while Qum was undeclared and Ophelia was a Centrist. That was surprising in itself, given the Isolationist and the Centrist’s longstanding rivalry, but apparently they had an understanding.
This was Illphres’ group of allies, and Ceria felt out of place and very small sitting with them. But she was here for a reason.
“This is my new apprentice. Ceria. She’s annoying, but she’ll help get the equipment we need.”
That was Illphres’ way of introducing Ceria to the group. Jurix laughed as the others greeting Ceria. He put his head on the table to reach over and shake Ceria’s hand—she remembered to stare at his head while she shook, rather than at the empty space where his head should have been on a normal body.
“I’ve seen you about, and of course I saw you fighting those pirates a year ago, Ceria. If you managed to convince Illphres of all people to take you on as an apprentice, I have no doubt you’re a capable individual able to do pretty much anything.”
Ceria blushed bright red, but Ophelia looked at Illphres with concern.
“Just so long as you’re not planning on making her our sixth. That’s not your intention, surely?”
Illphres passed her hand over her mouth to smile wryly.
“Hardly. I didn’t want an apprentice and I still don’t. But she insisted.”
“Good. No offense Ceria, but I don’t want you getting killed for nothing.”
Ophelia nodded at Ceria and, confused, the half-Elf nodded back. She hesitated, but then cleared her throat.
“Um, what is this about? I know Illphres said she needed the rings enchanted against ice magic—I have them right here, they’re about Tier 4 enchantments which is the best I could get—but what is it for?”
The mages stared at the rings Ceria put on the table, courtesy of Calvaron and a very large amount of gold, and then at Illphres. After a moment Bastam burst out angrily.
“Ancestors, Illphres! You didn’t tell her what we’re going to do?”
