“Well,” Hugo began, “I was just wondering how mages become mages.”
“The Magemother selects them,” Archibald said simply.
“But were they always mages? I mean, were they always magical?”
“Ah,” Archibald gave him a critical look. “You are wondering if you can become a mage.”
Hugo shrugged.
“I’m not surprised,” Archibald said kindly. “You have been obsessed with the subject since you were old enough to be a nuisance to the librarians. I’ll admit I have given it some thought myself.” He leaned against the side rail. “The short answer is that I do not know. A new mage has not been called in my lifetime, and I never saw fit to question Lewilyn about it.”
Hugo stared at him. The Magemother’s name was not usually spoken. It was considered highly disrespectful to refer to her as anything other than her title. He had never heard anyone talk about her so casually.
“Forgive me,” Archibald said. “I have been living in the past these last few days, and I forgot my place. In any case, I doubt anyone without inherent magical prowess could be a plausible candidate for the role of mage. It just does not make good sense. I am sorry I cannot provide you with a more complete explanation. Does my answer suffice?”
Hugo nodded. It was as he suspected. Why had he gotten his hopes up again?
Archibald turned back to the mist. “In we go,” he said, and disappeared through it, tugging the reins as he went. Pilfer hesitated only slightly, snorting and shaking his head before walking forward. Hugo shook himself. It was time to go on. He was on one of the magical bridges, after all. This moment, at least, he would enjoy. This was magic that he could participate in. Traveling such a far distance in one step had to be magic, didn’t it? He walked right up to the mist until his toes touched it and then bent forward at the waist, ducking his head through.
He broke head and shoulders through the silvery mist and found himself looking out over the mass of stone and noise and towers that was the Magisterium; it sprawled across the belly of Tarwal like some great, pointy-peaked beast that had crawled out of the ocean to sun itself and rest under the spell of sea smell and a purple-moon sunset. “Whoa,” he said, and stepped through.
They passed three carts pulling slowly up the bridge as they descended, but the men who attended them were too busy with the climb for words. When they reached the bottom, they were in the center of Tarwal. Like many other large cities, this one had been built hundreds of years ago around the foot of the bridge for convenience, since it served as the main route for entering and exiting the city.
The sounds of the city felt overwhelming compared to the silent forest roads they had been traveling on during the past few days. Shopkeepers bustled around trying to lure customers inside, a musician played a stringed instrument over a hat full of coins, and street vendors took hurried dinner orders from hungry students. The city felt alive. People were moving in every direction down streets lined with buildings five stories high. Houses, offices, mercantiles—each ran into the next in a dizzying parade of structures, punctuated briefly here and there by small streets and tunneling alleyways; it was a giant, wonderful mess.
After a few blocks they arrived at the main entrance of the Magisterium and tied their mounts to the post outside.
“Are you ready?” Archibald asked, glancing sideways at him as they climbed the steps.
Hugo grinned. He couldn’t help being excited at the prospect of entering the epicenter of his lifelong dreams, despite his recent resolution to abandon them. “Yes, I am.”
Chapter Ten
In which a door is closed
When Archibald and Hugo entered the Magisterium, they found it strangely bereft of occupants. They glanced at each other and Archibald arched an eyebrow quizzically.
“Is it always like this?” Hugo asked, guessing the answer.
“No.”
Hugo’s shoes echoed eerily off the polished brown bricks as they made their way down hallways that were usually bustling with students this time of day. After five minutes of walking, they began to hear the low murmur of a crowd in the distance. Finally Archibald opened a set of doors that led out of the building into what appeared to be the central square of the complex. It was interspersed with small enclosures and benches where students could gather, study, or in the case of this day, crowd around the entrance to the library.
Archibald whipped his hat off his head and held it against his chest, using his cane to part the crowd. At one point, a great burly youth with his back turned blocked their path; no amount of the usual pushing or prodding made him lean aside, so Archibald lifted his cane and knocked the handle of it against the boy’s head. The handle was a bright silver ram’s head, and very heavy, and it made a dull thump against the boy’s head, causing him to cry out and leap away in surprise.
“Ouch!”
“I beg your pardon,” Archibald said, and they hurried past before anything came of the matter. When they had pressed their way through the throng and entered the building, they found the source of the commotion: the door to the records room was locked, and a sound like rampaging cattle was coming from within. The majority of the masters were assembled outside trying to gain entry. The dean of the school was practically pulling his hair out as he spoke to a girl of about sixteen.
“I don’t care where he isn’t, I care where he is! If we can’t find him, we may never get inside.”
The girl turned and ran down a side corridor, and the dean turned nervously back to the closed door, wringing his hands.
“Pardon me,” Archibald said as they approached, startling the nervous man out of his thoughts.
“Pouzhfougy!” the dean exclaimed, practically jumping a foot in the air. (Hugo couldn’t help but laugh out loud at this.) “Don’t sneak up on a man like that, you—oh.” He cut himself off as he took in the sight of them.
“Good graces,” Archibald said mildly. “There is no call for such language.”
The dean blushed. “But what are you doing here, Archibald? And without announcement? Who is this? Is something wrong?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” Archibald observed, indicating the door and the masters gathered around it in discussion. “Why is the entire school gathered in the square outside? Have you got a wizard locked inside there?”
The dean’s eyes widened. “A wizard locked—is that what they are saying—of course not! He has locked us out, not we him in!” He pointed to the door in consternation, but Archibald simply chuckled and placed a calming hand on the man’s shoulder. He often liked giving the excitable little man a hard time, but regretted it today, for the dean was far more out of sorts than usual, and it wasn’t in good taste.
“Who is it?” he said simply.
“Ah,” the dean said, sounding a little calmer. “His name’s Cannon—a young man of some talent, it seems—he wandered in some weeks ago looking for a job and I gave it to him. Heaven knows we could use the help—but he turned out to be such a—I mean, if I had known, well…” the dean looked exasperated. “But what are you doing here, Archibald?”
“Never mind that now,” Archibald said, waving the question away. “Tell me, is this the same Cannon who was apprentice to the Wind Mage?”
“Yes! The very same,” the dean said, wringing his hands and glancing at the locked door of the library. “Early this morning he shooed everyone out of the records hall, barricaded himself inside, and by the sounds of it let loose the fire of Shael’s wrath inside—”
“Good heavens, man,” Archibald said. “Do not say such things.”
“—and we can’t find the master librarian anywhere! This door hasn’t been locked in a hundred years. Nobody knows where to find the keys.”
“Dean Chambers,” Archibald said a little sternly, making the nervous man flinch, “are you aware that Cannon has been summoned to appear before the king? Why has he not left already?”
T
he dean slumped down onto a bench against the wall and waved a hand in the air. “You can have him as soon as we get to him, I suppose, unless our librarian kills him first—won’t even stand for anyone disturbing the library in the usual fashions, but this…” He shook his head.
Archibald let him be and turned to inspect the door, where the masters still huddled before it, and the dean seemed to relax. He approached the wizards who stood in front of the door talking with each other, Hugo following behind him.
“I’m surprised that a little thing like a lock can keep all of you out,” Archibald said wryly.
“Indeed.” A tall, proud-looking wizard in his seventies gave him a little smile. “It is rather disheartening.”
“Come off it,” said a burly wizard with a moustache. Archibald knew him as the master framer, specializing in all things related to building and construction. The man rapped the door with a hard knuckle and put his ear to the keyhole. “These doors were built to withstand any forceful opening. Only the key will do the trick, I think.”
“What worries me,” said an older woman, Denmyn, if Archibald remembered correctly, “is the terrible noise on the other side! In any case, I would rather not open it. Or at least I would like you to wait for me to leave before you do.” The wizards looked thoughtful at her words. “Who is this with you?” she asked suddenly, pointing at Hugo.
“Ahh,” Archibald said. “This is my traveling companion for a time.” He waved at Hugo dismissively and left it at that. Hugo thought it rather rude that Archibald had failed to introduce him properly. He had been a small boy when he came to this place last and people couldn’t be expected to recognize him without an introduction.
“Do you mind if I have a go?” Archibald asked the little group of wizards. “Indulge me, please, I have business with the boy that comes straight from the king.”
The wizards seemed surprised at that, and doubtful, but moved aside just the same.
Archibald pulled on the doors, but they didn’t move, so he lifted the silver ram’s head of his cane and knocked hard. The silver head thudded against the door thunderously, making it shudder slightly.
“Oh my,” Denmyn said. Hugo considered the cane with a new interest.
Archibald knocked three more times, making it creak on its hinges, and waited, but to no avail. Cautiously, he slipped the bell out of his pocket.
“Is that a summoning bell?” a tall wizard with a moustache said with interest.
“I can’t say I really know,” Archibald said innocently, and tucked away quickly. Perhaps he thought it unwise to use it in front of the wizards. Hugo wondered if Archibald was even supposed to have such a thing.
Just then the dean’s aide returned, two men following behind her and carrying a third between them. This, no doubt, was the master librarian.
“What is going on here?” the librarian demanded sharply, causing Hugo to jump; he had thought the man was unconscious. “Why did you insist that I be brought here instead of taken to the infirmary?” He gave the dean such a scathing look that Hugo was almost embarrassed for him. He had a point, of course. The master librarian, though evidently in control of his head and voice, was clearly otherwise incapacitated. His feet were dragging on the floor as the two men carried him, his body hanging limply beneath him. If it hadn’t been such a serious moment, Hugo might have laughed (the old woman, Denmyn, did laugh, and if it wasn’t quite appropriate, well, she was very old).
“Good night!” Dean Chambers exclaimed. “What has happened to you, Master Ipps?”
“Good night, indeed!” the librarian exclaimed. “It was good night to me when that Cannon fellow”—he spat the name with loathing—”brought me a cup of tea. Nice thing, I thought. Kind of him, though it tasted a bit strange. After my eighth sip I had the good sense to stop. Even then, I lost consciousness. I have only recently been revived. As you can see, I am not altogether right yet.”
“Indeed,” Archibald said. “My condolences.”
The librarian didn’t hear him. He seemed to have finally taken in what was going on. “Save us!” he exclaimed, going pale. “Is that door locked?”
After an intense moment in which everyone looked from the librarian to each other, Archibald responded. “Do you have the key?”
“Key?” the librarian shouted. “The key? Of course I don’t have the key! There is no key! That is the Hall of Ages. It opens,” he said, raising his eyes to the inscription carved over the double doors, “for the Monumental Moment and the Momentous Man.”
“Surely that is just tradition, Ipps,” the tall wizard said mildly. “It isn’t actually true?”
“Of course it is,” the librarian blustered. He continued in a lecturing tone that was usually reserved for students. “The chamber itself was created out of pure magic at the founding of the Magisterium. The doors opened the day the Magisterium opened, no doubt a ‘Monumental Moment.’ The locking of the doors is a defense mechanism of the chamber. They were locked during the fire of 1147, and remained locked for almost three hundred years.” He let this news settle on his listeners for a moment, and looked annoyingly at one of the men holding him. “I do think that you can put me down now.”
As they sat him on the bench and propped him against the wall, Archibald asked the obvious question. “How were the doors reopened, Master Librarian?”
“Ah,” he said, looking up critically. “They were reopened by Animus in 1420.”
“Animus?” the wizard with the chopped moustache asked. “Wind Mage, Animus?”
“The very same,” the librarian responded.
“Excellent!” the dean said, relief flooding into his voice. “We will send for him at once and have done with this business.”
“Good luck with that,” Denmyn clucked.
“Pardon me, counselor. What do you mean?”
She adjusted her tiny round spectacles and sent a meaningful look toward Archibald. He took his cue.
“I think what she means is that you may not be able to find him, Dean Chambers. Indeed, no one can. Coincidentally, that is the principal purpose of my visit to the Magisterium.” They were all watching him closely now. “As you know, the Magemother has not been seen for months. Now Animus has resigned his post and disappeared as well. I have been sent here by the king to search for them.” He paused, giving an opportunity for someone to respond, but only blank stares greeted him. “I do not think it is a coincidence,” he continued, “that upon my arrival I find Animus’s apprentice in the middle of everything. He was summoned to appear before King Remy and seems to have deemed it unnecessary to do so. According to accounts of those present, he was quite distraught when his master disappeared, and now this. I would very much like to speak to him.”
“You’ll have to wait your turn,” the master librarian said furiously. “What do you suppose he is doing in there to make such a racket?”
The tall wizard raised a hand. “I believe I can answer that.” He leaned against the door and placed an aging hand upon its hard wood surface. “I believe it is a storm. A great wind rages behind these doors.”
“Graces!” the dean squeaked nervously.
“No doubt that is the cause of the doors locking,” the librarian muttered, preoccupied. He was starting to get some feeling back in his limbs and was trying to move them. “I wonder if they will open for him when he wishes to leave.”
Denmyn spoke again. “Oh, no, I don’t think so,” she said confidently, and they all turned expectantly toward her once more. She turned to Archibald. “I think you will have to open them, Archibald.”
“Me?” he said, surprised.
“Yes, yes. I always thought you would grow up to be a ‘Momentous Man.’ And look,” she said, stepping to him and pinching his elbow as if to illustrate her point, “here you are.”
Archibald chuckled at that, unsure whether to take her seriously. A thought occurred to him then, and he knew what to do. He drew out the little silver bell again.
�
�It is a summoning bell!” the tall wizard exclaimed, hand leaping up to grab the end of his pointed chin in surprise. “I didn’t think that any still existed. Do you have any idea what that is worth?”
“Quiet,” the old woman snapped. “Let the man work!”
The wizard fell into silence. Archibald rang the bell, ear pressed against the door to listen. The loud gong that rang back made everyone jump where they stood. The librarian swore and fell off the bench he had been propped up on.
“Witch’s britches!” the dean exclaimed, rising from his seat. “What are you doing?”
Archibald just smiled and rang it again. He rang it again and again and again, until Hugo clamped his hands to his ears in protest and the dean stormed down the hall in retreat. He rang the bell for half an hour. By then only Denmyn and the librarian remained, the old woman smiling at his side, the librarian’s face entrenched in a gloomy expression that threatened to last for several years. None of them could have any idea what this meant. She must be on the other side of the doors.
He had found her.
Chapter Eleven
In which a door is opened
The next time Brinley heard the bell, she was ready for it. It rang early in the morning, an hour before the sun would come up, and she was already leaving the house when she realized two important things. The first was that, unlike each previous time, the bell had not rung just once. In fact, it was still ringing, filling the little town with a tumultuous bellowing noise that apparently disturbed nobody else. The second thing she realized was that her father was calling after her. She must have awakened him with her rampage down the stairs moments before. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t spare time to go back now. He would catch up. She didn’t know why, but somehow this time was different. She had to get there as fast as possible. The bell had never rung more than once, certainly not incessantly like this. She felt as if it was calling to her, urging her to come. So she did.
The bell never ceased the entire time she rode to the church. She took the four-wheeler this time, not caring, for once, that she was visible. The bell grew louder and louder the closer she came, and by the time she stood before it, she had to clamp her hands over her ears. She jumped off the four-wheeler without bothering to turn it off. The moon was almost full, so it was easy enough to see where she was going as she ran up the hillside to the doorway of the church.
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