“No!” Arista told him hastily. They looked at her, surprised. She smiled, embarrassed by her outburst. “I’ll go. It will give you two a chance to change out of your wet things without me here.” Before they could say anything, she slipped out and down the hallway to the stairs.
It had been nearly a year since that morning on the bank of the Nidwalden River when Esrahaddon had put a question in her head. The wizard had admitted using her to orchestrate the murder of her father to facilitate his escape, but he had also suggested there was more to the story. This could be her only chance to speak with Arcadius. She took a right at the bottom of the stairs and hurried to his study.
Arcadius sat on a stool at a small wooden desk on the far side of the room, studying a page of a massive tome. Beside him was a brazier of hot coals and an odd contraption she had never seen before—a brown liquid hung suspended above the heat of the brazier in a glass vial as a steady stream of bubbles rose from a small stone immersed in the liquid. The steamy vapors rose through a series of glass tubes and passed through another glass container, filled with salt crystals. From the end of that tube, a clear fluid slowly dripped into a small flask. A yellow liquid also hung suspended above the flask, and through a valve one yellow drop fell for each clear one. As these two liquids mixed, white smoke silently rose into the air. Occasionally he adjusted a valve, added salt, or pumped bellows, causing the charcoal to glow red hot. At her entrance, Arcadius looked up.
He removed his glasses, wiped them with a rag from the desk, and put them back on. He peered at her through squinting eyes.
“Ah, my dear, come in.” Then, as if remembering something important, he hastily twisted one of the valves. A large puff of smoke billowed up, causing several of the animals in the room to chatter. The stone fell to the bottom of the vial, where it lay quietly. The animals calmed down, and the elderly master of lore turned and smiled at Arista, motioning for her to join him.
This was no easy feat. Arista searched for open floor to step on and, finding little, grabbed the hem of her robe and opted to step on the sturdiest-looking objects in the shortest path to the desk.
The wizard waited patiently with a cheery smile, his high rosy cheeks causing the edges of his eyes to wrinkle like a bed-sheet held in a fist.
“You know,” he began as she made the perilous crossing, “I always find it interesting what paths my students take to reach me. Some are direct, while others take more of a roundabout approach. Some end up getting lost in the clutter and others find the journey too much trouble and give up altogether without even reaching me.”
Arista was certain he implied more than he said, but she had neither the time nor the inclination to explore it further. Instead, she replied, “Perhaps if you straightened up a bit, you wouldn’t lose so many students.”
The wizard tilted his head. “I suppose you’re right, but where would be the fun in that?”
Arista stepped over the rabbit cage, around the large pestle and mortar, and stood before the desk on a closed cover of a book no less than three feet in height and two in width.
The lore master looked down at her feet, pursed his lips, and nodded his approval. “That’s Glenmorgan the Second’s biography, easily seven hundred years old.”
Arista looked alarmed.
“Not to worry, not to worry,” he told her, chuckling to himself. “It’s a terrible book written by church propagandists. The perfect platform for you to stand on, don’t you think?”
Arista opened her mouth, thought about what she was going to say, and then closed it again.
The wizard chuckled once more. “Ah yes, they’ve gone and made an ambassador out of you, haven’t they? You’ve learned to think before you speak. I suppose that’s good. Now tell me, what brings you to my office at this hour? If it’s about dinner, I apologize for the delay, but the stoves were out and I needed to fetch a boy to get them fired again. I also had to drag the cook away from a card game, which he wasn’t at all pleased about. But a meal is being prepared as we speak and I’ll have it brought up the moment it is finished.”
“It’s not that, Master—”
He put up a hand to stop her. “You are no longer a student here. You are a princess and Ambassador of Melengar. If you call me Arcadius, I won’t call you Your Highness, agreed?” The grin of his was just too infectious to fight. She nodded and smiled in return.
“Arcadius,” she began again, “I’ve had something on my mind and I’ve been meaning to visit you for some time, but so much has been happening. First there was Fanen’s funeral. Then, of course, Tomas arrived in Melengar.”
“Oh yes, the Wandering Deacon of Dahlgren. He came here as well, preaching that a young girl named Thrace is the Heir of Novron. He sounded very sincere. Even I was inclined to believe him.”
“A lot of people did and that’s part of the reason Melengar’s fate is so precarious now.”
Arista stopped. There was someone at the door—a pretty girl, perhaps six years old. Long dark hair spilled over her shoulders, and her hands were clasped together, holding a length of thin rope that she played with, spinning it in circles.
“Ah, there you are. Good,” the wizard told the girl, who stared apprehensively at Arista. “I was hoping you’d turn up soon. He’s starting to cause a fuss. It’s as if he can tell time.” Arcadius glanced at Arista. “Oh, forgive me. I neglected to introduce you. Arista, this is Mercy.”
“How do you do?” Arista asked.
The little girl said nothing.
“You must forgive her. She’s a bit shy with strangers.”
“A bit young for Sheridan, isn’t she?”
Arcadius smiled. “Mercy is my ward. Her mother asked me to watch over her for a while until her situation improved. Until then I try my best to educate her, but as I learned with you, young ladies can be most willful.” He turned to the girl. “Go right ahead, dear. Take Mr. Rings outside with you before he rips up his cage again.”
The girl moved across the room’s debris as nimbly as a cat and removed a thin raccoon from his cage. He was a baby by the look of it, and she carried him out the door, giggling as Mr. Rings sniffed her ear.
“She’s cute,” Arista said.
“Indeed she is. Now, you said you had something on your mind?”
Arista nodded and considered her words. The question Esrahaddon had planted she now presented to her old teacher. “Arcadius, who approved my entrance into Sheridan?”
The lore master raised a bristled eyebrow. “Ah,” he said. “You know, I always wondered why you never asked before. You are perhaps the only female to attend Sheridan University in its seven-hundred-year history, and certainly the only one to study the arcane arts at all, but you never questioned it once.”
Arista’s posture tightened. “I’m questioning it now.”
“Indeed … indeed,” the wizard replied. He sat back, removed his glasses, and rubbed his nose briefly. “I was visited by Chancellor Ignatius Lambert, and asked if I would be willing to accept a gifted young lady into my instructions on arcane theory. This surprised me. You see, I didn’t teach a class on arcane theory. I had wanted to, and I requested to have it added to the curriculum on many occasions, but I was always turned down by the school’s patrons. It seemed they didn’t feel that teaching magic was a respectable pursuit. Magic uses power not connected to a spiritual devotion to Maribor and Novron. At best, it was subversive and possibly outright evil in their minds. The fact that I practiced the arcane arts at all has always been an embarrassment.”
“Why haven’t they replaced you?”
“It could be that my reputation as the most learned wizard in Avryn lends such prestige to this school that they allow me my hobbies. Or it may be that anyone who has tried to force my resignation has been turned into the various toads, squirrels, and rabbits you see about you.”
He appeared so serious that Arista looked around the room at the various cages and aquariums, at which point the wizard began to chuckle.
> She scowled at him—which only made him laugh harder.
“As I was saying,” Arcadius went on once he regained control of himself, “Ignatius was in one sentence offering me my desire to teach magic if I was willing to accept you as a student. Perhaps he thought I would refuse. Little did he know that unlike the rest of them, I harbor no prejudices concerning women. Knowledge is knowledge, and the chance to instruct and enlighten a princess—a potential leader—with the power to help shape the world around us was not a deterrent at all. On the contrary, I saw it as a bonus.”
“So you’re saying I was allowed entrance because of a plan of the school’s headmaster that backfired?”
“Not at all. That is merely how it happened, not why. Why is a much more important question. You see, School Chancellor Ignatius Lambert was not alone in my office that morning. With him was another man. He remained silent and stood over there, just behind and to the left of you, where the birdcage is now. The cage wasn’t there then, of course. Instead, he chose to stand on a discarded old coat and a dagger. As I mentioned, it’s always interesting to see the paths people take when they enter this office, and where they choose to stand.”
“Who was he?”
“Percy Braga, the Archduke of Melengar.”
“So it was Uncle Percy.”
“He certainly was involved, but even an archduke of Melengar wasn’t likely to have influence over those running Sheridan University, especially on a matter as volatile as teaching magic to young noble ladies. Sheridan is in the ecclesiastical realm of Ghent, where secular lords have no sway. There was, however, another man with them. He never entered my office but stood in the doorway, in the shadows.”
“Could you tell who it was?”
“Oh yes.” Arcadius smiled. “These are reading glasses, my dear. I can see long distances just fine, but then, I can see that is a common mistake people make.”
“Who was it, then?”
“A close friend of your family, I believe. Bishop Maurice Saldur of Medford’s Mares Cathedral, but you probably already knew that, didn’t you?”
Good to his word, Arcadius sent steaming meat pies and red wine. Arista recalled the pies from her days as a student. They were never very good, even when fresh. Usually they were made from the worst cuts of pork, because the school saved lamb for the holidays. The pies were heavy on onions and carrots and thin on gravy and meat. Students actually gambled on how many paltry shreds of pork they would find in their pies—a mere five stood as the record. Despite their complaints, the other students wolfed down their meals, but she never had. Most of the other students’ indignation she guessed was only bluster—they likely ate no better at home. Arista, however, was accustomed to three or four different meats roasted on the bone, several varieties of cheese, freshly baked breads, and whatever fruits were in season. To get her through the week, she had servants bring deliveries from home, which she had kept in her room.
“You could have mentioned that you knew Arcadius,” Arista told them as they sat down together at the common table, an old bit of furniture defaced like everything else. It wobbled enough to make her glad the wine was in a jug with cups instead of a bottle and stemmed glasses.
“And ruin the fun?” Hadrian replied with a handsome grin. “So Arcadius was your professor?”
“One of them. The curriculum requires you to take several classes, learning different subjects from the various teachers. Master Arcadius was my favorite. He was the only one to teach magic.”
“So you learned magic from Arcadius as well as Esrahaddon?” Royce asked, digging into his pie.
Arista nodded, poking her pie with a knife and letting the steam out.
“That must have been interesting. I’m guessing their teaching styles were a bit different.”
“Like night and day.” She took a sip of wine. “Arcadius was formal in his lessons. He followed a structured course, using books and lecturing very professorially, like you saw this evening. His style made the lessons seem right and proper, despite the stigma associated with them. Esrahaddon was haphazard, and he seemed to teach whatever came to his mind. Oftentimes he had trouble explaining things. Arcadius is clearly the better teacher, but …” She paused.
“But?” Royce asked.
“Well, don’t tell Arcadius,” she said conspiratorially, “but Esrahaddon seems to be the more skilled and knowledgeable. Arcadius is the expert on the history of magic, but Esrahaddon is the history, if you follow me.”
She took a bite of pie and got a mouthful of onions and burnt crust.
“Having learned from both, doesn’t that make you the third most skilled mage in Avryn?”
Arista smirked bitterly and washed the mouthful down with more wine. While she suspected Royce was correct, she had cast only two spells since leaving their tutelage.
“Arcadius taught me many important lessons. Yet his classes concerned themselves with using knowledge as a means to broaden his students’ understanding of their world. It’s his way of getting us to think in new directions, to perceive what is around us in terms that are more sensible. Of course, this didn’t make his students happy. We all wanted the secrets to power, the tools to reshape the world to our liking. Arcadius doesn’t really give answers, but rather forces his students to ask questions.
“For instance, he once asked us what makes noble blood different from a commoner’s blood. We pricked our fingers and ran tests, and as it turns out, there is no detectable difference. This led to a fight on the commons between a wealthy merchant’s son and the son of a low-ranking baron. Master Arcadius was reprimanded and the merchant’s son was whipped.”
Hadrian finished eating, and Royce was more than halfway through his pie, but he had left his wine untouched after grimacing with the first sip. Arista chanced another bite and caught a mushy carrot, still more onions, and a soggy bit of crust. She swallowed with a sour look.
“Not a fan of meat pie?” Hadrian asked.
She shook her head. “You can have it if you like.” She slid it over.
“So how was studying with Esrahaddon?”
“He was a completely different story,” she went on after another mouthful of wine. “When I couldn’t get what I wanted from Arcadius, I went to him. You see, all of Arcadius’s teachings involved elaborate preparations, alchemic recipes that are used to trigger the release of nature’s powers and incantations to focus it. He also stressed observation and experimentation to tap the power of the natural world. Arcadius relied on manual techniques to derive power from the elements, but Esrahaddon explained how the same energy could be summoned through more subtle enticement, using only motion, harmonic sound, and the power of the mind.
“The problem was Esrahaddon’s technique relied on hand movements, which explains why the church cut his off. He tried to talk me through the motions, but without the ability to demonstrate, it was very frustrating. Subtle differences can separate success from failure, so learning from him was hopeless. All I ever managed to do was make a man sneeze. Oh, and once I cursed Countess Amril with boils.” Hadrian poured the last of the wine into his and Arista’s cups after Royce waved him off. “Arcadius was angry when he found out about the curse and lectured me for hours. He was always against using magic for personal gain or for the betterment of just a few. He often said, ‘Don’t waste energy to treat a single plague victim; instead, search to eliminate the illness and save thousands.’
“So yes, you’re right. I’m likely the most tutored mage in all of Avryn, but that’s really not saying much. I would be hard-pressed to do much more than tickle someone’s nose.”
“And you can do that just with hand movements?” Royce asked skeptically.
“Would you like a demonstration?”
“Sure, try it on Hadrian.”
“Ah no, let’s not,” Hadrian protested. “I don’t want to be accidently turned into a toad or rabbit or something. Didn’t you learn anything else?”
“Well, he tried to teach me how to bo
il water, but I never got it to work. I would get close, but there was always something missing. He used to …” She trailed off.
“What?” Hadrian asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just that I was practicing gestures on the ride here and I—” She squinted in concentration as she ran through the sequence in her mind. They should be similar. Both the rain and the boiling spell used the same element—water. The same motion should be found in each. Just thinking about it made her heart quicken.
That is it, isn’t it? That is the missing piece. If I have the rest of the spell correct, then all I need to do is …
Looking around for the bucket that Hadrian had brought up, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Boiling water, while harder than making a person sneeze, took a short, simple incantation, one she had attempted without success hundreds of times. She cleared her mind, relaxed, then reached out, sensing the room—the light and heat emanating from the candles, the force of the wind blowing above the roof, the dripping of water from their wet clothes. She opened her eyes and focused on the bucket and the water inside. Lukewarm, it lay quiet, sleeping. She felt its place in the world, part of the whole, waiting for a change, wanting to please.
Arista began to hum, letting the sounds follow the rhythm that spoke to the water. She sensed its attention. Her voice rose, speaking the few short words in a melody of a song. She raised a single hand and made the motions, only this time she added a simple sweep of her thumb. It felt perfect—the hole that evaded her in the past. She closed her hand into a fist and squeezed. The moment she did, she could feel the heat, and across the room steam rose.
Hadrian stood up, took two steps, and then stopped. “It’s bubbling,” he said, his voice expressing his amazement.
“Yeah, and so are our clothes.” Royce pointed to the pieces of wet clothing hanging on the line, which were beginning to hiss as steam rose from them.
“Oops.” Arista opened her hand abruptly. The wash water stopped boiling and the clothes quieted.
Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations Page 9
