A College of Magics

by Caroline Stevermer

  Menary tried to look grave but her eyes betrayed her amusement. “He fell climbing the tree. He’ll be all right soon.” Under her hand the wedge of the cat’s head stirred. Menary moved her fingers soothingly, just enough so that Faris met its glaring golden eyes.

  Faris experienced a slight sharpening of her vision. Weariness, hunger, and pique fell away before her sudden surge of anger. In a remote, calm portion of her mind, she thought how odd it was that people spoke of losing one’s temper. Ordinarily, she was scarcely aware she had a temper. Now that she could feel it yielding like rotten rope, her temper was vividly present, like another person inside her skin.

  With great detachment, she told herself that it was her temper that gave her leisure to examine the variety of her reactions. It was her temper that made time seem to run so slowly. It was her temper that narrowed her field of vision to those golden eyes. And it was her temper that made Jane’s voice sound far away, more distant than her recollection of Tyrian’s words. That day the tide had come in as they stood on the rocks, his voice had been entirely businesslike: I found a dead rat in his unmade bed.

  She heard her own voice, loud and rough, as she started toward Menary. “Where is Tyrian?”

  Jane’s hand brushed Faris’s sleeve as she moved forward. Far off, she was saying, “That’s not a cat—”

  Menary’s mouth curved with slow satisfaction. “Whatever he was once, he’s mine now.”

  Faris stood over Menary, so close that she could see Menary’s fair hair stir against the tree bark as the girl looked up and added, “What will you do about it, sailor’s daughter?”

  Very far away, Faris heard Jane’s voice. “Oh, dear—”

  Then Faris felt the silk of Menary’s hair in her hands, and heard Menary’s outraged shriek as Faris hauled her to her feet. The cat dropped free and fell in the grass a few feet away. Jane tried again to catch Faris’s sleeve.

  Faris ignored her and shifted her grip to Menary’s shoulders. Her temper had made it hard for her to see. Her vision had shrunk until she could scarcely make out what her hands were doing. What little vision remained, anger tinted red.

  Faris shook Menary until her head banged against the tree trunk. The impact traveled up Faris’s arms. Satisfactory but not perfect.

  Faris gathered herself for another try. Menary shrieked again, not a scream of pain, a scream of rage, a shriek with words in it. Dimly, the remote, calm portion of Faris’s mind recognized the intent behind the words. Her hands loosened.

  As Faris took a step back, Menary fell against the trunk again, and shrieked in earnest as the tangled silk of her hair caught fire.

  It was not natural fire, Faris realized. It gave no heat, no scent of singed hair. It blazed pale gold and green, Menary’s wild halo. In its own way, it was beautiful, as cold and strange as the northern lights.

  Jane shouted, and thrust Faris aside. Her hands were on Faris’s sleeve again. Irritably, Faris pulled away. Jane stripped the academic robe from Faris’s shoulders, and fell upon Menary to smother the flames. Menary kept on screaming. The noise she made hurt Faris’s ears.

  Suddenly cold, suddenly shuddering with cold, Faris fell to her knees in the garden. Her anger was gone. Her vision was clear. Too clear. There was no way to avoid the sight of Menary huddled at the foot of the oak. Under Jane’s hands, she sobbed and struggled. The cat was gone. An arm’s length away, unconscious, naked in the brown grass, lay Tyrian.

  At the sound of a soft footfall, Faris looked up. In the garden gate the Dean stood, resplendent in her dark green robes. She was flanked by Dame Cassilda and Dame Villette. With calm severity the Dean regarded the disarray of the garden, then looked back to Faris.

  “You are going to have to tell me,” she said, restraint in every syllable, “precisely what has happened here.”

  Faris swallowed. She could find no words to force through the tightness in her throat. Instead, she regarded the Dean with mute wonder.

  “Dame Brailsford, tell the infirmary what’s happened here, and have them send stretchers. Dame Villette, Dame Cassilda, see to the injured. Faris, come with me.”

  Uncertainly, Jane looked from the Dean to Faris, then down at Menary, who was weeping quietly at her feet. Dame Cassilda and Dame Villette came forward, and something in their brisk manner decided her, for she nodded respectfully to the Dean and left.

  “Faris—” There was warning in the Dean’s voice.

  “I won’t leave Tyrian,” said Faris hoarsely. “I’m responsible for him.”

  “You are responsible for a great deal, it seems. Dame Villette?”

  Dame Villette spoke up from her place at Tyrian’s side. “He’ll do.”

  Reassured, Faris rose to her feet and crossed slowly to the Dean. The backs of her knees seemed to jerk and quiver as she walked. She shivered.

  “I want Menary Paganell sent to my office the moment she’s recovered,” the Dean said to Dame Cassilda, and left the garden. Faris followed her unsteadily.

  In the Dean’s office, which felt splendidly warm after the chill of the garden, Faris sank into the chair the Dean indicated. Surely there was solace in the offer, she reflected. Wouldn’t swift execution take place standing?

  The Dean spread her hands flat on the desk blotter. “Tell me precisely what happened.”

  Faris folded her hands in her lap, and noticed without much surprise that they were trembling. “I am not at all sure.” Her voice was small and nearly peevish. She cleared her throat twice and continued more normally. “I was looking for Tyrian. He works for my uncle. He’s here on my behalf, so I feel responsible for him. While I was looking, I found Menary. In some fashion, she had transformed Tyrian into an animal. A crippled animal. I lost my temper—”

  “Before all that. Tell me what happened from the very beginning. You had your vigil last night. Start there.”

  Faris blinked. “From the beginning?”

  The Dean nodded.

  Faris cleared her throat again and began. By the time she had finished, the Dean was sitting very straight, gripping the arms of her chair until her knuckles showed white.

  The Dean spoke very gently. “Tell me what else happened on the roof of the chapel. Northern lights?”

  “Nothing else. It was cloudy. I heard some geese go over. I saw the stars when the sky cleared, just before dawn. Am I to be expelled?”

  “You cannot stay at Greenlaw,” said the Dean. “You are quite certain you experienced nothing out of the ordinary while you were up there?”

  Faris closed her eyes in an effort to think more clearly. She was so tired they stung and burned, but this was not the time to betray fatigue. She squared her shoulders and returned the Dean’s piercing gaze as directly as she could. “I didn’t get as cold as I expected to.”

  “You were aware that you were near the anchor?”

  Faris nodded.

  “You realize that the presence of most individuals disturbs the anchor? And in turn, that the anchor disturbs them? How did you feel during your vigil? Did you have a headache?”

  “I felt a little out of breath the first time I visited the place, that’s all,” Faris replied.

  From a drawer of her desk, the Dean produced a card and wrote a few words on the back. “Time is of the essence. At the earliest opportunity you must go to this address,” she handed Faris the card, “and ask for Monsieur Hilarion.”

  “Why?” Faris examined it, an ordinary visiting card, with the Dean’s full name engraved on one side, and on the other an address written in the Dean’s rakishly slanted hand: 24, rue du Sommerard, Paris. “Who is Monsieur Hilarion?”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “He will prefer to explain that to you himself.” At the Dean’s summons, Jane Brailsford entered. “For now, I must ask Jane some questions regarding the scene you created in the garden. Please give her your chair.”

  “Just a moment.”

  Oblivious to her, the Dean asked, “Jane, is Dame Cassilda finished in
the infirmary yet?”

  “No, but Dame Villette is in the hall.”

  “Excellent. Faris, go tell Dame Villette to keep you under her thumb until I need to speak with you again.”

  Faris gripped the arms of her chair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Jane came to stand beside her. “Your friend Tyrian is down at the infirmary. He’s asking for you.”

  The Dean frowned at Faris. “I have told you that time is of the essence. I have several important matters which I must discuss with Jane. After that, I must prepare to deal with Menary Paganell. The infirmary staff have wonderful powers of restoration, so my time is limited. Go tell Dame Villette to guard you.”

  “Why? After all, I’m going to be expelled. Why should I obey you?”

  Jane regarded Faris with dismay.

  “One might wish you had grasped the subtleties of language in the time you’ve spent here. I never said you were to be expelled. I said you cannot stay at Greenlaw.”

  Faris opened her mouth, and then shut it again without speaking.

  The Dean seemed pleased with the effect she had produced. “Dame Villette may escort you to the infirmary. Go see about that young man. After all, you say you feel responsible for him.”

  Reluctant to obey but entirely unable to think of a reason not to, Faris rose. Jane still looked a little stunned as she took the chair.

  As she closed the door, Faris heard the Dean’s calm voice. “Now, Jane, tell me precisely what happened—from the very beginning.”

  With Dame Villette at her side, Faris walked into the infirmary. It was a small gray building that smelled strongly of carbolic soap. In the corridor, she encountered a harassed-looking young woman wearing doctor’s garb.

  “I’m here to see the man they brought in from the Dean’s garden.”

  The doctor regarded Faris with interest. “The naked man? Are you indeed? So much the better.” She offered Faris a bundled heap of clothing, all black. “They found his clothes under the desk in the Pagan’s study. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? You can bring them in to him.”

  Faris took an involuntary step backward. “I certainly will not. You take them in to him. I’ll see him when he’s himself again.”

  The doctor thrust the bundle of clothing into Faris’s arms. “Who do you think you are, the Queen of Sheba? Do as you’re told.”

  Faris took the bundle. The doctor left her. Faris stood in the drafty corridor, aware that her knees were quivering again. At her elbow, Dame Villette said softly, “This room to the left.”

  Faris turned and held out the bundle to her. “You take his clothes in. Please.”

  Dame Villette smiled. “I think not.”

  Faris found Tyrian’s room typical of the infirmary, a whitewashed space with one window, empty but for the narrow iron bed. Beneath the drab blankets, Tyrian seemed smaller than she remembered. His disordered hair was bright against the white pillow. He watched her enter, his blue gaze clear and steady, but said nothing. Faris put the bundle on the foot of the bed, and retreated until she could feel the door against her shoulder blades. He looked very young, almost her own age.

  “They found your clothes,” she said, unnecessarily. Her voice sounded nearly normal, so she added, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” It sounded as though it hurt him to talk. “Thank you.”

  “They said you asked to see me.”

  “Yes.” He watched her intently.

  Silence filled the room. He did not seem to notice. His eyes held Faris’s.

  Faris turned and opened the door. “I’ll come back in a few minutes, then. You’ll want to get dressed.” His stare disconcerted her. She had to get away from it. There was something wrong with the intensity of his regard, something strangely childish, that had nothing to do with the man she had expected to see.

  To her relief, he nodded.

  “I’ll wait in the corridor. Call when you’re ready to talk.”

  When he called “your grace,” Faris returned. This time, Tyrian was sitting on the foot of the bed, fully clothed. He was finishing with his boot laces as she entered. Faris could not see his expression, but the hunch of his shoulders suggested embarrassment or guilt.

  “I have three things I must make it my duty to tell you.” Tyrian’s voice was soft and slightly hoarse. He did not look up from his boots. “First, I apologize. I have no excuse worth offering, only that she is so young. As young as you, your grace. I underestimated her. I am sorry.”

  Faris frowned. Tyrian, it seemed to her, spoke with the carefully measured phrases of a man in pain. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

  Without looking up, Tyrian continued, “The second thing is, thank you for breaking the spell. I underestimated you, too. Until you freed me, I thought I was hers forever.” Tyrian paused. “When I agreed to guard you, I swore I would never let you come to harm. Instead, you had to rescue me. So, the third thing is my resignation.” He did not look up.

  “Oh.” Belatedly, Faris recognized the misery that ran beneath his words. She was looking at a man ashamed. Wearily, she wondered how Jane would manage this situation. After a moment’s thought, she came and stood beside him at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m tempted to try sophistry but I won’t. You know the sort of thing—I didn’t hire you so I can’t accept your resignation—” She held up a hand to still his protest. “I won’t. And you didn’t let me come to any harm. But I won’t chop logic with you. If you’ve had enough of magic to last a lifetime, I understand.”

  Tyrian rose. “Thank you.” Eyes downcast, he started slowly for the door.

  Faris did not move. “Only, I consider it a great pity that Menary Paganell should possess the power to turn you from your duty.”

  Tyrian turned back to face her, his mouth tight. “It is a great pity she possesses any power at all, but she does. Indeed she does.”

  “I am warned. I’ll be wary of her. Although,” she added carefully, “I doubt our paths will cross again. Menary will probably be expelled. And I must leave Greenlaw. My uncle has just sent Reed to fetch me back to Galazon.”

  Tyrian’s eyes widened slightly. “Reed? Drayton Reed?”

  “Why, yes.” Faris looked surprised. “Do you know him?”

  “Who else is with him?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Your uncle sent him as your escort, just Reed alone?”

  Faris nodded.

  “Then your uncle is a fool, and Reed’s another.” Tyrian scowled at the floor for a moment. Then he looked back at Faris with sudden resolution. Indignation erased any strangeness in his manner. “I withdraw my resignation. I will go with you to Galazon. I must.”

  In her relief, Faris smiled broadly at him. “Then you do know Reed.”

  “Indeed I do. I don’t wish to slight him, but he has had far less experience at this sort of thing than I. He shouldn’t have to bear sole responsibility for your safety.”

  Faris studied him. “On my uncle’s behalf, I accepted your resignation. I employ you now myself.” She extended her hand to Tyrian. To her astonishment, he made a courtly bow over it.

  “Command me, your grace.” Tyrian smiled at her and Faris found herself smiling back.

  “The Dean intends to conduct an inquiry into my doings with Menary. When that is finished, I’m told I must leave Greenlaw. Indeed, the Dean has asked me to pay a call for her in Paris.” Faris frowned slightly, but continued with scarcely a pause, “After that, we will go home to Galazon.”

  “With great pleasure, your grace.” Tyrian opened the door. Dame Villette stood there, fist raised to knock. He greeted her politely.

  “The Dean has sent for you both. She has spoken with Menary and is ready to question Tyrian.”

  “Good,” said Faris. “Time is of the essence.”

  At half past two, Dame Villette led Tyrian into the Dean’s office and left Faris under Jane’s supervision. In weary silence, Faris followed Jane through the angled sunlight of winter afternoon int
o the great hall.

  “We’re to wait here,” Jane said quietly.

  Faris looked around at the vast lacework of the windows, the polychrome ceiling, and the complicated tile floor. “That makes sense, I suppose. This is where I started.”

  “The Dean questioned me as though I’d witnessed a murder. This is no mere inquiry into a row between students. It’s a full scale court-martial. What have you done?”

  Faris sighed. “You were there. You saw it. I lost my temper. Do you think we might go look for a chair somewhere?”

  “We’re to stay here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll get me into trouble.” Jane tried to laugh. The attempt failed, and she looked troubled.

  “Oh, come now. I’ve been up all night. I’ve missed so many meals I may never catch up. I’ve been questioned by the Dean and I’m going to be questioned again. At least let me sit down. I’m going to need all my strength for this.”

  “I’m serious, Faris. We’re to stay right here. I’m sorry there’s nowhere to sit but it can’t be helped.”

  “Graduation was the ruin of you, Jane Brailsford.” Faris sat down on the floor.

  “Get up. You can’t be court-martialed sitting on the floor.”

  “I’ll get up when the Dean comes, I promise.” Faris stretched out on the floor, and yawned enormously. “Wake me up when it’s time.”

  The outer door opened and Menary entered, Dame Cassilda at her side. In her severely cut gray frock, with the neat turban of white linen bandaging her head, Menary resembled a novice rather than a penitent. Her eyes were thoughtful, her expression serene. She seemed troubled neither by the events that had passed nor by the interview to come. She regarded Faris with amusement.

  “Abase yourself before the Dean, by all means, but it’s usually done lying on one’s stomach, not on one’s back.”

  “I yield to your greater experience in such matters.” Faris rose. Menary smiled at her. It was a small, yet extremely nasty smile.

  Jane stepped between the two. “Greenlaw’s quarrel with you takes precedence over the quarrel between you. Wait your turn.”