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Mik rolled his eyes. “She talks a lot. I think she uses magic—folk can’t talk that much without taking a breath. Sura doesn’t have to hear her own voice to know she’s alive. I like that.”

  “Ha! My brother told me a girl can’t talk when you’re kissing her.” He shook his head at Mik’s questioning look. “No, I haven’t. Maybe tonight, though.”

  “He’s asleep.” Mik shook his friend.

  Charn moaned and sat up. “Mik… I was having such a great dream. It was about Isa, too.”

  “We have work. You can dream about her some more when we’re done.”

  “Shhhh! You’ll wake the whole room!”

  “They can’t hear us. I made sure of that.”

  “Oh. I should ask Zharcon to teach me that spell.” He stood, steadying himself on the bed. Moonlight found its way through the window, enough to see the floor, and he raised a fist. “For the honor of Westmarch!”

  “For Stolevan and the Queen!”

  They laughed and bumped fists for luck, then shuffled toward the window. “He’s still protected,” said Mik. “I can feel it from here. To hold up a spell in your sleep…”

  “He’s protected. But his bed isn’t.” Charn grinned. Hen sim Miran’s bed rose from the floor, carrying its sleeping occupant. Mik was impressed at how level it stayed; had he tried this, Hen would have already rolled off. “All right, he’s high enough. Turn him around. I’ll keep him straight.”

  “I’ll have to drop the silence,” said Mik. He gave the bed a gentle, magical nudge. It swung around, staying near-perfectly level, as they remained still and quiet. “All right. We’re silent again.”

  “Good. Now comes the hard part.” The bed sank back to the floor, much more slowly than Charn had Lifted it. Through the floor, they felt the four legs touch down almost at once. “Done.” They returned to their own beds, and Mik released his own spell.

  They lay awake, anticipating. At last, they heard a moan and the rustle of bedding—then a smack and a curse, the whump of someone falling back to the mattress, then another smack and more cursing as Hen sim Miran fell to the floor. Mik and Charn both held mouths and noses, holding in their laughter, as Hen scrambled to his feet. They kept very still as he oriented himself and stomped across the room, stopping for a moment at their beds before moving on to the privy.

  “Silence us,” Charn whispered. “I’m about to burst!”

  “Done. Did you hear what—” Mik could hold back no longer, and the two roared with laughter inside the safety of Mik’s spell.

  • • •

  “Well done,” said Bailar, as Mik and Charn told how they’d avenged themselves. He and Zharcon both laughed at the story of the haughty Northerner taking a tumble.

  “Indeed,” said Zharcon. “Forethought, subtlety, use of magic, physical result. We no longer assign ratings to pranks or counter-pranks, but that would have won a very high mark. Especially since your target was a senior, and you found a way around his protection.”

  Isa, snuggled up against Charn, giggled. “I wish I’d been there to see it, I just can’t get the image out of my mind! I saw him this morning, he didn’t look hurt or anything, so that’s good.”

  “He may be covering something,” said Zharcon. “I felt magic on him, more illusion than protection. He got a bloody nose, like as not.” She looked across the table at her apprentice and his friends, especially the one pressed up against him.

  Isa waved to someone. “That’s Tonima, my mentor,” she said to Charn. “She had such a long talk with me last night, about you know what, and it was so strange. Now she’s watching me like the All-Seeing Eye of Bula-Bula!” Charn blushed and gave a nervous laugh.

  Mik and Sura held hands as they walked to their morning lecture. Charn and Isa walked ahead of them, arms around each other’s waists. “Conclave Romance, eh?” Mik whispered, nodding at their friends. Bailar had explained the term yesterday at supper: the life of most apprentices (and sorcerers) was lonely in these latter days, and the Gathering gave everyone a chance to at least briefly connect.

  “It’s sad,” said Sura. “In another week, they’ll have to say good-bye and won’t see each other for a year. We’re lucky. We don’t have to be apart.”

  “Do you think we’ll get to steal away again tonight?”

  “I don’t know. The mentors will be watching. Especially Isa’s.” She frowned. “I wonder if they saw where Charn’s hands went last night.”

  Mik snorted. “She didn’t seem to mind. At all.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  He laughed. “Too late!”

  Sura gave him a false scowl and a nudge. “I see you look at her sometimes. She is pretty.”

  “I—” I didn’t mean her, he thought, sputtering for a moment. “She’s nice to look at,” he admitted. “Then she starts talking, and I want to bring down the silence. I don’t feel that way around you.” He slipped his arm around her waist and gave her a lopsided smile. “Did you notice how close your father and Charn’s mentor were sitting at breakfast?”

  Sura’s eyes went wide. “Closer than we were! Do you think they…”

  “I don’t know. And maybe it’s not for us to worry about. He doesn’t watch us. Much.” He smirked. “But I’ll bet that ambassador wouldn’t approve, seeing them like that!”

  Ahead of them, Charn and Isa turned at the sound of laughter. “You like our wiggle-walk?” Charn grinned; the two of them began an exaggerated waddle, staggering and bumping into each other.

  Sura laughed again. “We were just talking about our mentors,” she said. “There might be some of what Mik calls ‘other kinds of magic’ happening there!”

  Isa giggled. “See, I told you!” She poked Charn and pulled him to a stop. “I was telling Charn about our first evening, before the Conclave got started, and how the matron came in and gave the girls a long lecture about how we had to be careful, there was a lot of temptation and cha-cha-cha, it was like they thought we were all planning to go home pregnant or something, and I don’t know why they would think that. Maybe they should be talking to the older women about this…”

  Mik smirked and nudged Sura, who put an arm around him and poked his ribs. Isa chattered on, heedless.

  As the apprentices made their way to the dormitories for the night, Mik and Charn heard, “Hoy. Mik.” They turned to see Hen sim Miran jogging toward them, and took defensive stances.

  “No… peace and harmony. For now.” The senior apprentice stopped and raised his hands, then looked down and fingered his red sash. “My… my mentor wants to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess she wants to ask you about… you know. The ice dragon.” It seemed that Hen had to force the words out, which convinced Mik of his honesty more than any assuring words.

  Mik looked at Charn, who shrugged. The four of them had cut short their time in the baths, and slipped away to the Cannoneers’ Terrace, watching Lesser Moon shine on the ocean… and not, although the thought of their mentors watching kept their ardor in check.

  Mik sighed. “All peace unto you, Hen sim Miran. When and where?”

  “Her chambers. Now, if you can.” He gave directions, looking sullen, then walked past without another word.

  “Are you going?” Charn whispered. “He has to be up to something.”

  “Did you look at him?” Mik replied. “He was following orders, and he didn’t like it.”

  “I looked. He wasn’t telling everything. Something is up.”

  Mik shrugged. “I need to find out what. It’s just down the hall from Bailar’s chambers. If it’s another prank, I can go there.” He turned and walked the other way.

  Charn watched Mik for a moment, then turned to watch Hen walking toward their dormitory. Something is wrong. I can feel it. He began walking quickly, trying to catch sim Miran.

  • • •

  Mik’s hesitant knock pushed the door open. Having seen Bailar’s chambers, he knew what to expect: a small receiving r
oom with two narrow settees, and a low table that could be raised for use as a writing desk. Beyond an inner door would be a bedchamber with a window, and a tiny washroom with a privy.

  “Enter, young dragonrider, in all peace and harmony,” a woman’s voice beckoned. He stepped inside, and the woman behind the voice stood to greet him. She was, to Mik’s unpracticed eye, about the same age as Bailar—and a Northerner, like her apprentice. He tried hard not to stare; she wore a red silken robe, open at the top to reveal more than a hint of full breasts beneath. A belt of red silk around her waist showed off her wide hips. Her blonde hair was braided and draped over one shoulder. She was Northerner-tall, taller even than many men at the Conclave. Few women could look both sturdy and elegant, but this one did.

  “Uh… notable,” Mik stammered. “You need not rise to greet an apprentice.”

  She gave a musical laugh. “One should always rise to greet a dragonrider,” she said, reminding Mik of Bailar’s first words to him. “No need for further formalities, though.” She sat, waving at the other seat. “Call me Aleya. And you, of course, are the apprentice that has set tongues wagging from Westmarch to the land of the Dawn Greeters.” Her robe slipped open a little further.

  Mik tore his gaze away and made himself look around the room. It was lit better than the apprentices’ dormitory, with several candles and oil lamps burning on their sconces. Aleya had a few decorations; the pelt of a great cat adorned the wall above her, and a tapestry hung next to the inner door. The tapestry depicted a group of men and women, gathered on a seashore. One of the men, a big Northerner, blew a trumpet. Behind him shone the rays of a sun. Rising or setting, Mik knew not. Not knowing what else to do, he sat.

  “Let me offer you refreshment,” said Aleya, producing a jug and two fine goblets from underneath the table between them. “The local wines are a little sweet, but not bad.” She filled both goblets, pushing one across the table. Mik gave it a dubious look, but took it up. Aleya sipped her wine, holding Mik’s eyes with her own. “You do know why I asked you to join me?”

  Mik lowered his eyes. Something compelled him to test his wine, but he found no magic within. He took a cautious sip. “I suppose you want to talk about the ice dragon? But I told the assembly everything this morning.”

  “Of course. But you spoke only of the bind you found yourself in, how your mentor and fellow apprentice helped you find your way. But perhaps you would satisfy your own curiosity first?”

  Mik felt uncomfortable under her gaze, not understanding why. “The tapestry,” he said, sounding hoarse. “What does it depict?”

  Her smile unsettled him a little more. “The Sounding of the Horn,” she purred. “The true moment that ended the Age of Heroes and began our own age. They all winded the Horn that morning, but the tapestry shows the turn of Captain Miran.”

  “Miran? But…”

  “Indeed, Hen traces his ancestry back to Captain Miran. A thing to be proud of, certainly. But you… who knows who your forebears might be? Perhaps Captain Chelinn? Oops.” A drop of wine trickled down the narrow divide between her breasts; she wiped it up with a finger and licked it, still watching Mik. “Protector Ethtar was also a Westerner. Perhaps you’re of his line. Who knows?” She shrugged, and her robe spread a little wider. “In years to come, perhaps sorcerers will claim to be descended from Mik Dragonrider. A fine thought, no?”

  Mik squirmed and tried to look away. “What… what is that pelt?” He pointed to the hanging above her.

  “Oh. It’s from a beast called the mountain lion.” Aleya smiled and sipped her wine. “A gift from the Northern Reach. But I did not invite you here to discuss trifles. Do you know how fortunate you are?”

  Mik nodded. He was unsure whether she meant his surviving his encounter with an ice dragon, or becoming an apprentice sorcerer, but one had led to the other.

  “There are, of the hundred sorcerers at the Gathering this year, only three with more than one apprentice. And there are many with no apprentice at all.” She leaned forward, placing her wineglass on the table. Mik gasped at what was illuminated in that moment. “Your fellow apprentice is also fortunate. What was her name?”

  “S-Sura.” In his mind, Mik cried out Sura!

  “Such a lovely name for a lovely girl. And is she a sister to you… or something more?” Seeing Mik’s blush, she laughed. “I see the answer.” She reached for her wineglass, again exposing herself. “Perhaps I can teach you something of value after all.”

  “I… I wouldn’t leave my mentor. I owe him too much.”

  “Oh, I would not ask you to do that.” She stood and smiled. “Come with me. I can teach you how to please a woman. How to make your Sura eager for your touch.” She offered him her hand.

  Mik pressed himself into his seat, hand half-raised, mind racing in all directions—including some that shamed him. What do I do? he thought frantically. Then his aunt’s voice came to him: Against an ice dragon ya stood, and rogue mages ya fought. Let this temptress have her way, will ya? Mik shook his head, half ready to dash for the hallway, half ready to follow Aleya to her bed, when there came a knock.

  “What?” Aleya frowned and pulled her robe tight. She opened the door to find a scowling Bailar. He glanced at Mik; the apprentice heard his voice clearly: Play along.

  “Peace and harmony, Bailar the Blue,” said Aleya. “Is something amiss?”

  “All peace unto you, Aleya the Red.” Bailar turned his scowl to Mik. “Mik, did you take that book on herblore to Sura as I instructed you?”

  “What? No, sir.”

  “Then wait for me in my chambers.” He nodded up the hallway.

  “Yes, sir.” Mik was confused, but left as quickly as good manners allowed. He slipped into Bailar’s chambers. To his surprise, Sura stood waiting for him. Charn and Isa crowded one of the settees. “What—what?” he stammered.

  “I got His Imperial Highness to tell me what his mentor had in mind,” said Charn. “I got Isa, she got Sura, and we all went to your mentor.”

  “That book on herblore was just to get you out,” said Sura, looking angry. “You didn’t forget. You’re not in trouble. Maybe.”

  “Sura, I—I didn’t—”

  She took his hands and gave him a grim smile. “It’s not you I’m angry with, Mik. It’s this—this whole situation. Why would she want to avail herself with—” She growled, but threw her arms around him. “I heard you call to me. I’m so glad you—”

  Bailar pushed the door open. “Good. That’s over.” He fell onto the unoccupied settee. “Charn, Isa, thank you for your help. You may go. No, stay. Perhaps this will be instructive for you as well.”

  Mik began to shiver. “What—why would she—”

  “The blame falls to me,” said Bailar. “Do you remember, on the barge, when I spoke of pressures that the two of you would not feel this year? Indeed. I should have foreseen this and spoken further.”

  “I’ve seen how some of the other apprentices look at me and the other girls,” Sura growled. “One or two of the sorcerers, too. And here I was, thinking Mik was the lucky one since he’s a boy. Mentor and father, what is wrong with this place?”

  “Remember how few we were in the Great Hall?” Bailar looked solemn. “Centuries ago, Captain Chelinn wrote of a result of the Principle of Necessity: in this age, as folk grow in knowledge and invent new devices, magic becomes less necessary. The Treaty that Mik almost ran afoul of, was signed partly to protect what sorcerers remain, and partly because the cannon and other devices made combat magic redundant.

  “Yet there are those among us who wish to turn back the tide. The children of sorcerers are more likely to have the Talent… and Mik, your beginnings suggest a great deal of Talent. If Aleya—a formidable Talent in her own right—were to get a child from you, that child could become a powerful sorcerer indeed. And she’s not the only one who thinks that way.”

  “Ehhh!” Isa shuddered from the settee, as she and all the apprentices blushed. “Is that why the matro
n talked to us girls the first night here?”

  “Indeed. The Conclave as a whole tries to protect its apprentices—especially the young ladies—from itself. For the established women in the sorcerous ranks, raising a child is a badge of honor. But for an apprentice? Motherhood is often too great a burden. Instead of two potential sorcerers making a third, we often end with only one.” He looked at Sura. “Indeed, the burden of a child can be too great for poor folk.”

  “Mentor,” Mik asked, “did you ever try to find who left Sura—”

  Sura nudged him. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “This is my father. He always has been.”

  “And I am always proud of that,” said Bailar with a smile. “And that is all I have to say. You four are dismissed. Mik, Charn, you may walk your ladies to their quarters as is fitting and honorable, then return to your own quarters. But if you wish to speak more of these things among yourselves beforehand, I will ask Zharcon the White and Tonima the Brown to allow the four of you the privacy of a full and honest airing.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Charn, sketching a bow. Isa followed suit, silent for a change.

  Bailar placed his hand over his heart, saluting an equal. “It is an honor and privilege for sorcerers to instruct apprentices at the Gathering. And not all lessons are of magic.”

  Chapter 5 - Rogue Mage

  “The term rogue mage describes two quite different characters,” said the instructor, an Eastern woman. “This is unfortunate, although they often come to the same end by different roads.”

  Mik stifled a yawn and tried to pay attention. He was interested in what the instructor had to say, but he hadn’t slept well since the night he visited Aleya the Red. His dreams—cavorting with Sura, with Aleya, with the two together, even Isa—were bad enough, but moaning in his sleep drew the ire of senior apprentices more than once. Hen sim Miran give him no trouble, however, perhaps considering his own complicity in the matter. Mik finally moved to one of many empty rooms nearby, but his friend Charn insisted on accompanying him. Mik’s restless sleep kept Charn awake as well, but Charn worried that Aleya or another sorceress might catch the Dragonrider alone.