A flicker of white was the only warning Nundle had before being abruptly lifted off the deck, whisked over the ship’s rail, and dangled over the water. Reasoning he was about to be a shark’s next meal, he reached out for the Strands of Will. Using a Weave against a preceptor was forbidden, but Nundle was happy to make an exception in this case.
He quickly knit the pattern that would make the preceptor susceptible to suggestions, but when he directed it at the ijul on deck, it unraveled, the golden Strands falling apart and fading. If a mage could see a Weave, sometimes only a part of it, he or she could unravel it if they knew where to pull. Apparently, the preceptor knew where.
“I read the report on you, mainlander!” called Preceptor Myrr. “That was rather predictable!”
Nundle did not answer as he was too busy panicking over being eaten. Or drowning. Or both.
As the preceptor lowered him to the water’s surface, Nundle readied himself to start swimming, his mind racing for a way out of this. He was surprised when he thudded onto something solid rather than go splashing into the sea. Righting himself, he looked around and found a three-foot diameter circle of hard, unmoving water surrounding him. Curious, he bent over and touched it. It looked like ice, but it was warm. A lone word of wonder slipped from his lips.
“Huh.”
The preceptor’s voice cut through the air.
“Back to the docks!”
Nundle’s head snapped up.
“Wait…what?”
Nundle looked on with growing anxiety as sailors rushed about the deck, readying the ship for sailing. While some stared out at him with worried expressions, none made any effort to toss him a rope.
Preceptor Myrr looked over the railing of the galley and called, “When you have figured out the pattern, walk to shore. If you are not back by tomorrow morning, I may send someone for you.” The ijul then turned and walked away, his long arms swinging freely by his sides.
Nundle glanced at his fellow acolytes, foolishly hoping they might help him somehow. Most of them seemed unconcerned about him. Landor wore a wide smile.
As the ship sailed away, Nundle had no choice but to stand there and watch. After a time, he sat down cross-legged on the not-ice and, rising and falling with the swells, stared at the white sails as they shrunk to a dot on the horizon.
“Wondrous.”
He did not want to spend the night here. And even if he did, he seriously doubted the preceptor would send someone for him tomorrow.
As he let out a long sigh, a shark fin pierced the water’s surface nearby.
“Uh-oh.”
Chapter 17: Research
Lifting his hand, Jhaell scratched his nose while staring at the open book before him. On the corner of his desk sat a sand jar in which a Yutian incense stick burned, curls of peppery smoke coiling up from the glowing tip to join the thick haze hanging near the ceiling. Lit candles clasped in tall bronze stands filled the room with a soft, quivering glow.
This was the time of day he should to be planning tomorrow’s lesson, but try as he might, he could not concentrate on the pages before him. His mind kept wandering.
He glanced to another book on his desk, a faded blue canvas-bound tome from Quan that contained a passage of text that was one of the most promising he had found in years. It was nothing to bring to Tandyr yet, but if he could find corroboration in the library, he certainly would.
Tilting his head back, he stared at the ceiling and sighed heavily, his exhalation causing the incense haze to twist and spin. Over two hundred fifty years had passed since Syra’s death. At times, he had difficulty remembering her face. Yet the ache of loss was as potent as it had been that day on the cold, sandy shore.
With each passing semester, his restlessness increased. When he had agreed to help Tandyr, he had never thought it would be for so long. He had met some success—finding the first for which Tandyr was searching—but the going was interminably slow. He was only a third of the way through the academy’s massive library.
Even worse, there was a chance it could all be for naught. If the Progeny—whoever they may be—were not found, Tandyr’s plan might fail. And if that happened, Jhaell’s promised reunion with Syra would never come.
He sighed again, quietly cursing, “Beelvra.”
The sound of metal striking wood issued forth from his office door, the crack reverberating through the room. Jhaell’s melancholy mood fled in an instant, his long-fingered hands balling into fists. If another one of the acolytes was coming to complain, Jhaell just might kill him or her.
Reaching over, he picked up the blue tome, opened a front drawer, and slid the book inside. Shutting the drawer, he shot a quick glance around the room, confirming that he had not left anything else out. Long tables ran the length of the walls, covered with stacks of maps and yellowed parchments.
Confident the room was safe, he called, “Enter.”
As the door swung open, a frown spread over Jhaell’s face. It was not a student.
The ijul standing in the doorway wore robes of cobalt silk lined with ornate, teal ribbing at the cuffs and neckline. A sapphire the size of Jhaell’s thumb had been sewn into the robe at the neckline’s inverted peak. Ensconced in the robes was an old saeljul with long, white hair so thin that it reminded Jhaell of threads hanging from a sleeve after being caught on a stray splinter.
While Jhaell was nearly four hundred years old, he was still several decades from his first wrinkle. This ijul’s face was a web of them. Lines spread across his pale skin like the roads on a city map. Contrasting the ijul’s feeble appearance were his bright green eyes, sharp and alive.
As the saeljul shuffled into the room, Jhaell rose and gave a small bow. The elder ijul looked out of place, his bright blue robe clashing with the plush crimson rug that covered the office’s stone floor.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Distinguished One?”
Distinguished One Hovathil studied the room, taking in the closed shutters on the three arched windows, the candles, and the sparse, crimson-heavy décor. When his gaze rested on Jhaell and his red robes, Hovathil frowned, reorganizing the age lines on his face. Letting out a wisp of a sigh, he scanned the room again, apparently looking for somewhere to sit.
“Do you not have a chair so I may rest?”
Jhaell had removed the chairs from his office decades ago. They encouraged people to sit and stay when Jhaell would much rather that they had never come in the first place.
“No, Distinguished One, I do not.”
Hovathil glared at Jhaell for a long moment, saying nothing. Jhaell met his stare with a quiet, tolerant confidence.
“Preceptor Myrr, we are a patient race, are we not?”
Jhaell nodded once. “We are.”
“Would you say that we here at the Academy have been patient with you?”
Jhaell kept his face a blank mask and remained quiet. The question was unexpected. “Pardon, sir?”
“Your behavior and attitude have been…let us say ‘challenging’ for others to deal with over these last few decades. Centuries, even.”
Hovathil paused, seeing if he would get a response. He would not. Jhaell clasped his hands together and stared in silence, curious as to why the Distinguished One had come. Visits to his personal office by the registry were rare.
“What has become of you, Preceptor? You were once one of our best instructors. Acolytes requested you. Now you are temperamental. Irritable. ‘Cruel’ is a word many whisper.”
Keeping his tone even, Jhaell lied, “I have modified my teaching methods through the years. That is all.”
“For the worst, it would seem,” muttered Hovathil, strolling over to one of the tables covered with maps and parchments. Jhaell stiffened. While nothing important was visible, should the Distinguished One move items around, things would go poorly.
“Why are you here, Distinguished One?” asked Jhaell. The question served its purpose, pulling Hovathil’s attention from the papers and placing i
t back on Jhaell.
“An entire class of yours quit the Academy, leaving nothing more than letters of notice in their quarters, and you have to ask the reason for my visit?” He began to advance on Jhaell’s desk, his eyes burning. “That has never happened at Immylla, Myrr. Never.”
Jhaell had arranged things so it would appear the nine students had quit the Academy on their own accord. While he still regretted his indiscretion in Yellow Mud, the acolytes’ disappearance had proven to be a boon of sorts, giving him more time to spend researching for Tandyr.
“They will be missed, sir.”
“I doubt by you,” muttered Hovathil. Leaning forward, letting his thin hair hang before his wizened face like dead, moss from an ancient tree, the saeljul ordered, “You will modify your tutoring methods. Do you understand? Else your position here at Immylla will be ended.”
Jhaell tried hard not to glare at the ijul, but he could not be sure that he succeeded. “I under—”
“Do you still wish to teach here, Myrr?”
In all honesty, the answer was no. Yet Tandyr needed him here, searching dusty tomes and parchments, seeking any mention of the Locking and—more recently—anything that might lead to the Progeny mentioned in Indrida’s prophecy. “Of course I wish to continue.”
The Distinguished One leaned even closer. His breath smelled of onions and fish. “Truly, Myrr?”
Along with patience, humility was a quality Jhaell had ceased to practice over the centuries. It took him a moment to summon some, bow his head, and say politely, “Yes, Distinguished One, I value my place at Immylla.”
“Excellent to hear. Because that means I shall never again hear of you doing something as brainless as leaving a Water-deaf acolyte alone in the middle of the ocean! Should I hear of more such idiocy, you will be removed from your position here. Is that understood?!”
Jhaell finally understood what had prompted the Distinguished One’s visit. “I was merely trying to teach the mainlander today’s lesson.”
Hovathil’s green eyes opened wide. “Oh! By all means, teach. Impart. Demonstrate. Educate. Lecture. Elucidate…Pontificate if you must!” Smacking his palm on Jhaell’s desk, Hovathil hissed, “But never put the acolytes in mortal danger! Mainlander or not!”
Jhaell dropped his head, stared at the open book on his desktop, and swallowed his pride. “Understood, Distinguished One. I apologize.”
“Had the tomble not been particularly clever,” grumbled Hovathil. “He would most likely be dead now and we would have had to cancel the class.”
Admittedly, that had been Jhaell’s hope. “May I ask how he returned, sir? He has shown no aptitude for Water at all.”
“He adapted a Weave coastal mages use to aid fishermen and charmed the needleteeth to pull him to shore—without biting him. He arrived on shore a while ago, dripping wet, but none the worse for wear.”
Jhaell lifted an eyebrow, forced to acknowledge the tomble’s ingenuity. “And so he ran straight to the registry and reported me, did he?”
“Actually, no,” replied Hovathil. “Preceptor Filaeril spotted him on his way back to the dormitory and asked why he was sloshing seawater all over the halls. The tomble claimed he had tripped and fallen off the docks, but—as the mainlander is your student—Preceptor Filaeril suspected something else had occurred and brought him to me. The tomble refused to reveal what happened until I threatened to expel him.”
“So everything is fine, then,” said Jhaell. “The tomble is alive. No harm was done and class may continue.” He was less than thrilled with the outcome.
The already deep creases around Hovathil’s eyes turned to canyons. He growled quietly, “You would be wise to spend time thinking on what we have spoken of today, Myrr.” Turning around, he strode to the office’s open doorway where he halted, looked back, and pointed a long, bony finger at Jhaell. “The registry still disapproves of your choice in fashion.”
“I prefer crimson,” replied Jhaell evenly. It had been Syra’s favorite color. “And the bylaws allow it.”
Hovathil pressed his thin, dry, and cracked lips together and muttered, “I suppose that is the least of my concerns.” Glaring at Jhaell’s robes a moment longer, he lifted his gaze to Jhaell’s face, and said, “I will be observing your class tomorrow, Preceptor. Do you have any objections?”
Jhaell could think of quite a few. “No, sir. It would be an honor.”
Hovathil nodded once and exited the room, leaving the eight-paneled oak door open behind him, Jhaell suspected on purpose. Moving from behind the desk, Jhaell strode across the plush rug to shut it himself. As he grabbed the door’s edge, he felt a black, crackling vibration in the air. His eyes widened as panic rushed through him.
Poking his head out of the door, he ensured that Hovathil continued striding down the hall. Closing the door, he moved to the table over which Hovathil had been hovering and retrieved a bundle of ten parchments from a stack’s bottom. Taking them to his desk, he spread the blank sheets in a fan and waited.
Moments later, a long, flowing script began to appear on the fourth from the left. He pulled the sheet free and stared. The individual at the other end was writing as quickly as a snail crawled. Jhaell squeezed his eyes shut, impatient. “Write faster, blast it.”
These parchments had become invaluable in his search. A preceptor from the Academy at Hollow who possessed superior control over Strands of Void had made them for Jhaell ages ago. A unique Weave, bound to two sheets of parchment, allowed someone to write on one sheet and the letters would appear on its mate, regardless of distance between the pair. With a simple weave of Air, the parchment could be cleared and reused indefinitely. The pairs to these ten were spread across Terrene—most in the Oaken Duchies—with different Tandyr loyalists, all of whom were currently searching for some sign of the Progeny.
Jhaell slowly counted to twenty, opened his eyes, and read the now complete message with mounting anger. This parchment’s counterpart belonged to an erijul currently investigating an area around Greycliffe in the Duchy of the Red Peaks. According to the message, an official of Duke Thomas’ court had visited him, curious about why he had been asking such odd questions.
“Blasted fool,” muttered Jhaell. Clearing message with a tiny Weave of Air, he dropped the parchment on the desk and sat in his chair. He could not afford to leave this be. He needed to visit the Greycliffe personally and discover what the erijul and duchy official had discussed.
Rising from his chair, Jhaell marched around the desk and stood in the center of the crimson rug. Reaching for both the white Strands of Air and the midnight black Strands of Void, he arranged them in the correct pattern. Moments before it was complete, he shut his eyes and pictured a little alcove of spruces on the hill above Greycliffe. The sound of ripping cloth cut through the office and a small tear split the air, appearing just above the red carpet. He lifted a flap of the port and stepped through.
Chapter 18: Luck
Nundle strode down the cool, gray granite hallway, moving through alternating strips of sun and shade created by Mu’s orb shining through the tall arched windows that lined the hall’s left side. His sandals smacking against the stone floor was the only sound within the cavernous passageway.
He had been lying atop his bed, contemplating different ways he could manage to hide for the remainder of the semester when the idea to go speak with Preceptor Myrr had popped into his head. He was determined to ask his teacher that he be allowed to either study independently for the remainder of the semester or be moved to another class. Doubting either wish would be granted, he had nonetheless hopped up, slipped on his sandals, and began wandering the maze of halls. Amazingly, he had not turned back. Yet.
He muttered, “Perhaps I’ve gone mad.”
Ahead of him, Distinguished One Hovathil exited the hallway leading to the preceptor’s office, his blue robes swishing. Nundle halted in place and nearly dove into a nearby alcove. He had no desire to speak with the saeljul again.
&nbs
p; Luckily, the Distinguished One seemed preoccupied and did not notice Nundle. He turned left and shuffled away from the tomble, passing through the patches of sun and shade farther down the hall.
For once, Nundle rejoiced in his small stature. At three and a half feet tall, he was much shorter than most everyone in the Arcane Republic. In fact, he had come across but one soul his size while studying, an atarkas named Kemir during his semester near the Ciyriel volcano. The pair had become fast friends, finding solidarity in being two short people in a tall persons’ world. Unfortunately, their paths had not crossed again once they both finished at Veduin.
Considering todays’ events, Distinguished One Hovathil coming from the direction of Preceptor Myrr’s offices most likely meant he had visited Nundle’s teacher, something Nundle had begged the elder ijul not to do.
Nundle let out a long, weary sigh. A visit from the Distinguished One would not have improved the preceptor’s mood. Nevertheless, Nundle resumed his path down the hall. He had come this far already.
Reaching the same passages’ intersection, Nundle turned left. He had had been down this corridor only once before when he had come to introduce himself to his new teacher. He hoped today’s visit would go better than that one.
On his first day here, Nundle had knocked on the preceptor’s door. After a few moments, a voice told him to enter. Nundle had shoved the heavy wooden door, pushing it into the room, and had begun to introduce himself. He had gotten out his name when he had felt a soft, white crackling of Air. With a great gust of wind, the giant oak door had slammed in his face forcing Nundle to leap back quickly to avoid his foot being crushed in the doorjamb. The preceptor had barely glanced up from his desk.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 16
