29th Enyara, 998 NE
“Mistress Keliko Henthae,” she repeated.
“Your pronunciation is very good, child. Please, take a seat.”
The old woman slid into her chair with a surprisingly-athletic grace, but Emrelet remained standing. She managed to keep the disdain from her voice, though.
“If you please, I am no longer a child.”
“That only becomes clearer each time you speak.” Henthae sighed. “And it is, after all, the reason you’re useful to us. We don’t employ actual children, you see, yet you’ll forgive me if I think of you as young. Very few of our employees are undergraduates. You will be able to shake things up, so to speak. Please, do sit down, my dear woman. I’ve been on my feet all day and it’s tiring me out just looking at you.”
The chair, its headrest carved into the likeness of a hippogriff or some such creature, was cushioned in dark blue leather. Emrelet sat, a small smile on her face, and found it to be surprisingly comfortable. She faced the magister again, noting for the first time the strange painting on the wall – a flying forest, burning as it fell into a desert.
“We aren’t in the business of letting those with power like yours roam around unchecked. The things you’ve done –”
“I saved zose people,” she murmured. “Do you say zis to all ze prospective champions?”
“Prospective champions rarely utilise such extreme methods in the pursuit of justice.”
The hair on the back of Emrelet’s neck bristled. She’d condensed the water-flow right out of the air over the man’s head, forced his chin back, pouring the fluid into his lungs.
He took a child, she wanted to growl.
But she reined herself in. She knew where she was. She knew what the risks were.
Henthae seemed to have been waiting for her to conclude her thoughts before continuing: “You are smart, Miss Reyd. I’ll give you that. Committed. Productive. Ruthless.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t interrupt.
“Our tests don’t lie,” the magister continued. “The truth is, you’re needed for something bigger. Something better.”
“Bigger zan being a champion? I can imagine no such thing.”
“You’re living it. Life, Miss Reyd. Here, I give you freely the most precious gift conceivable. Take my advice: do not become a champion if you wish to live.”
Emrelet raised an eyebrow. “You’re offering me –”
“A danger-free life? No, Miss Reyd, don’t you be alarmed; you’ll have your fair share of excitement if you choose to join us. A share of tedium too, of course – it isn’t my intention to deceive you. But the risks are measured. Many of our arch-magisters retire after decades of diligent service, with full pay and honours. Our champions… let us just say that they are far more prone to workplace fatalities. In some instances, even in the midst of an Infernal Incursion, demons of abhorrent power have been known to seek them out in person and scatter their remains.”
She clasped her ring-laden fingers together, sitting forwards with a shrewd look on her face. “Wouldn’t you rather tell your parents you have the weight of the Magisterium at your back? A secure job – one you’ll even find fun, I’ll warrant. I can ensure you have a splendid career, Miss Reyd. If you’re half as smart as I think, you’ll agree to take our glyphstone, mull it over.” Henthae sat back once more, smiling now. “You should visit again – we could tour Magicrux Altra, the very apex of the Maginox, and discuss your duties.” She seemed to notice Emrelet’s sceptical expression and waved her hand. “Potential duties, of course…”
Have I been enchanted? she wondered later, when she was flying back through the night air towards the tent in which they’d been sleeping for the past eight days. The word ‘enchanted’ in her native Onsoloric, the form in which she thought it, was ivienach; enchantment as a type of magery was inseparable from its connotations of witchcraft, black magic. Yet Henthae had been… what was it? What made her so likeable? Could it be that she was working spells over her? Surely the Magisterium would find out – such a thing would be incredibly illegal… Wouldn’t it?
She didn’t know – yet – but she had the means to find out.
Lying under the sheepskin blankets with dozens of others, buried in the scents of so many unwashed bodies, she opened the book Henthae had given her and, by wizard-light under the covers, whiled away the hours reading.
* * *
23rd Orovost, 998 NE
“How much longer, do you think?” she asked, still staring at the huge stone steps that started the spiral, looking between the bodies of those joining the staircase to find those descending around the bend.
“It’s Mistress Henthae,” Ciraya said in her usual droning, raspy voice, leaning on the pillar next to them. It was like she was simultaneously inflecting every single word for emphasis, and none of them at all. “You know what she’s like. This might take some time.”
Emrelet moved forward against the crowd to quickly peer up at the clock. The lengths of crystal representing clock-hands, up there high on the wall overlooking the crowds, were suggesting eight-fifteen.
We have to go, she thought. What was Henthae playing at, sending me away? Does she intend for me to be faced with a disciplinary?
She’d just faced off against Dustbringer himself, but she was experiencing more turmoil right now, trapped in her indecision. Everything that had been drummed into her over the last months told her that she and Ciraya needed to get on back to Sticktown, yet surely Mistress Henthae knew that she wouldn’t leave without Kastyr – without Kas…
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Everything had moved so fast over the last twenty-four hours, she hardly knew what to do with herself. Meeting a champion on his first real excursion into the wider world of his chosen profession had fired her up inside, reawakened dreams that she’d thought long forgotten. She might’ve only been in the city for a matter of months but being the perfect magister, the perfect student… it was her life now, her new reality. She’d created a new self out of the ashes of the failure of a sister, the freak of an archmage, and she was useful here, needed for Incursions, for dealing with the serious threats. She could be somebody… Wasn’t that what everyone wanted, most of all? To matter? To make a mark on the world?
For all that Henthae said otherwise, she’d seen magisters die in battle. She knew the true stakes, nowadays, and if anything she was still with the Magisterium due to inertia.
She hadn’t realised the face she was pulling, but then of its own accord her tongue clicked, making it sound like she was tutting.
“It is time ve don’t have,” she said, to cover for the noise.
“Relax. We’re late, some idiot takes us in the room for a chat to ask us, ‘Do you realise how your lateness affects the Magisterium’s ability to police the streets?’ Blah blah blah…” Ciraya was grinning. “I think it goes a little deeper. You pining for your new boyfriend?”
“He’s not – vell, votezzer he is to me – zat’s none of your business!”
“Mmmmm,” the sorceress purred, “I never thought to see our brave leader so confounded. Distracted, even, I’d say. You got it bad, girl. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He’s alright.”
Emrelet scowled, looking back at the spiral staircase, and Ciraya just chuckled, which only made it worse.
Would she talk like this to an archmage who didn’t come from Onsolor, one who wasn’t dirt-poor?
Ciraya was older than her by a year or so, and more experienced in many ways… she was almost a role-model to her, in spite of everything. Emrelet was doing her best to catch up to the spoiled brats from other lands, those sent here on scholarships, not immigrant wagons… But they were so far ahead of her, their every word and glance took on a double-meaning, a mockery the likes of which she’d never thought to encounter. The sorceress wasn’t highborn, wasn’t special, but her easygoing attitude – the familiarity of it – could grate on Emrelet sometimes.
“Look… boss… You know what they say about foresight. Things still look different in hindsight. I really am sorry about that business before on Mud Lane.”
She turned back to the black-robed mage and was surprised to find there was no smirk twisting the painted lips.
Ciraya coolly returned her gaze, not going any further in her explanation. The silence was awkward.
“So… Belexor… again,” Emrelet said, by way of peace-offering. “I couldn’t believe he vould use ze strength-enhancement just to humiliate ozzers –“
“Called it,” Ciraya murmured.
“– but to kidnap a champion, to change his shape like zat… Vot voz he thinking?”
“This is the end of the line for the boy, if you ask me.” The smirk was back now. “Good riddance, too. Fe never liked him, not one bit.”
“It’s ze feazzers. It gets right up your nose.”
“Ha-haaah… maybe. Or the reek of cowardice.”
Then she saw them, and stepped away from the pillar, beaming.
At last… and he’s not in bindlaces.
Henthae came over to the edge of the space with Kas at her side, and, just from the tone of her mentor’s voice, Emrelet obtained the answer to her question before it was all spelt out.
He’ll not do their bidding.
“This is an interesting one you girls found last night.” She looked at Kas, then back at Emrelet and Ciraya. “I don’t think he will be signing up any time soon, but he has promised to consider it, and I think we can work with him either way.”
She smiled, hearing this, and went to take his hand. He still looked nervous.
“Could I have a word, Emrelet?” Mistress Henthae asked as soon as she had hold of him. “I realise the time.“
Emrelet met his eyes under the hood, his gaze still a bit wild. “Feychilde – vould you go on ahead? I can catch up.”
“Sure,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze before releasing it.
“I’ll walk you out,” Ciraya said to him. “Fe needs a run. Em, I’ll meet you at base.”
There it is. Not ‘boss’ this time. Not ‘Emrelet’, even.
She fought back the scowl that threatened to reclaim her features because Kas was looking directly at her – then she turned away, bowing her head to listen to Henthae. She followed her into the crowd while Kas and Ciraya turned aside and made for the exit.
“Thank you for your efforts today, mingling with the local champions.”
“That’s not exactly vot I voz doing…”
Henthae laughed warmly. “Oh, don’t worry, I know you’ve become infatuated with our new arch-sorcerer there –“
“Mistress! Zat is not –“
“Please, Emrelet, don’t insult my intelligence. No, I do not need my power in order to recognise this; I was young once. If you were trying to hide it, take from this the lesson that you are inept at such games and should avoid them in future, or improve your skills, if you wish to present a believable face to your audience.”
The wizard stopped dead and the enchanter wheeled about, looking her directly in the eyes.
“If you want to cuddle up with a champion, go ahead. You want to hold his hand through the cold nights and fight the forces of hell with him, do your worst. But I will leave you these words of warning, my dear, for I do care about you: do not fall for him?” It was strange, the inquisitive nature of the phrase. “Don’t expect to wear his ring or take his name or bear his children. This one is – champions are dangerous, in love. Enemies sharpen their blades. When friends cut you, the knife is blunt; the pain is worse. You can’t see it and neither can he, but this one is covered in razors. His fate is full already. Heed my words.”
Mistress Henthae patted her fondly on the arm, then took her leave, heading back to the stairs. Emrelet turned on her heel and left the Maginox – within a minute she was taking Feychilde up into the purple darkness, up into the winds that patrolled the emptiness, beneath the constellations burning bright.
She heeded Henthae’s words, but she thought all along that she took from them a message Henthae hadn’t intended.
She wanted to be with Kas, at least to see how things went between them, if he would have her. She still wasn’t a hundred percent sure he was interested in her – he’d been looking at her the same as the bargeman on the Briarflow, the same as Elkostor and Belexor… but there were differences. His eyes were harder to read. There was less lust in his gaze, more… something. Something wistful, bregabor, perhaps. It was entirely possible she’d make a complete fool of herself if she made the first move, but she was tempted to anyway.
Emrelet didn’t think he’d connected the two – the way she’d taken to him when he’d caught the Cannibal Six, and the story of Onsolor’s descent into the starving-madness. She understood the connection quite clearly. If there was ever going to be a sign that a man was right for her, it was this. It might’ve seemed superficial to someone else, but she didn’t care. She was herself.
Henthae was wrong. He was what she needed. Even if he did cut her she would welcome the pain, welcome the change in herself again like she had done with the last. If she kept changing, chasing, she could flee it, outrun what she had done. Forget what she’d let happen.
Be someone else.
She was about to kiss him, but he kissed her first. She held onto him like they were each two halves of a whole, once separated, now together again.
She changed. She forgot.
Yet forgetting carried its own perils. It wasn’t his death that would cut her, but his own tumultuous change – and when he did the pain of the blade would be unlike anything she could have ever imagined. It would reopen the old wounds, scars deeper than the skin, hidden from his sight. Henthae would speak the words that would shatter her self-image.
And she would cut him back, twice as savagely.
* * *