Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

Cradling a mug of tea in his hands, Simon regarded his family over the breakfast table. In truth, it was the only table. The chairs were mismatched, the bowls they ate from likewise mismatched and chipped, but it was breakfast in their own home. A palace: two rooms over a weaver’s workshop, cramped and dark and noisy. It was dry though, and they all had a place to sleep.

Nana bustled round the black iron stove which took up one end of the main room. ‘This thing’s filthy. I doubt it’s ever seen a brush. I’ll be all day cleaning it.’

‘Sam can help you,’ Simon said.

Sam pulled a face.

Lorie scraped the last porridge from her bowl. ‘I’ll help.’

‘You and I have an errand to run this morning,’ Simon said. ‘If you can manage without us, Nana?’

The old woman grunted. ‘No end of work to do, and nothing to do it with, but I dare say I’ll manage. I always manage.’

Simon descended the rickety wooden stairs one step at a time, with Lorie following. The staircase creaked in sympathy and below the looms banged and rattled their busy rhythm.

‘Where are we going?’ Lorie asked.

‘You’ll see.’ 

It was a relief to reach the workshop floor; between his stiff leg, missing toes, and the rocky treads of the staircase, he always worried he’d fall.

The noise of the looms faded behind them as they walked down the street, merging into the general confusion of small factories and shops and vendors crying their wares. Simon clutched Lorie’s arm and kept his other hand protectively over the money in his pocket. 

She shrank against his side. ‘So many people.’

Simon nodded. He supposed, in time, he’d become accustomed again to living among crowds. In Sark, one might be no less cramped, but he’d known everyone, at least slightly. There were no unfamiliar faces, no strangers, only neighbours. Here he knew no one. 

Even the variety of people was startling at times: pale-skinned stocky northers mixed familiarly with tall brown sothrons and swarthy sailors from the Windward Isles. The Athanorese themselves were a mongrel people, bred of every race, and they had their own distinctions. No citizen would ever confuse a noble of the four Houses with a low-class worker like Grumman the weaver, though his family might be Athanor born for ten generations.

Simon steered Lorie onto broader streets, where the factories gave way to shops and stalls. They climbed the great curve of the Avenue. To the east, the sea sparkled in the morning sun. White-sailed ships dotted the bay, many flying the blue Anemari flag.

The Anemari woman. Had his father really had an affair with a married woman? The Anemari were known for their easy-going approach to relationships, but he couldn’t imagine his father unbending so far. 

He stopped. ‘See that big white mansion? That’s Numisma. I’ll take you and Sam there to meet your grandmother, someday soon.’

‘Grace lives there?’

He walked on. ‘Yes.’

‘Is Grandmother sick?’

’Sort of.’ Simon frowned, unsure how to explain something he’d never entirely understood himself. ‘Not really. She’s in a trance most of the time, seeking knowledge of the divine. She talks to angels.’

‘Oh. Really angels?’

He laughed. ‘Yes, really. Or she may be insane, though I suppose there are worse forms of madness.’

Wrought-iron gates loomed ahead. ‘That’s House Oryche, where I grew up.’

‘Is that where we’re going?’

‘Not today.’

The road curved, following the crater wall. Tall houses shut out the view of the sea.

Simon stopped at another pair of gates set into a high stone wall. ‘This,’ he said. ‘Is the Arcanum.’

Lorie stood beside him to peer through the gates into the Campus. ‘It’s very big.’

‘I was at school here for eight years.’ He opened the gate and went through. ‘Come.’

‘Are we allowed inside?’

‘I have business here.’ He closed the gate behind her. ‘That’s the Library. They have every known book of arcane lore, many unique. Beside it is the Scriptoria, where manuscripts are copied and scrivists trained.’

From the building to their left came the low chant of boyish voices reciting the Prime Grammar. Simon paused to listen, transported back to his own schooldays — squirming on a hard bench in a hot hall, trying to jam yet another glyph into his aching brain. Happy days, in hindsight, though he’d hated it at the time. 

He smiled. ‘Come on.’ 

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He led her up a flight of steps through the grand doorway into the Master’s Hall. Forbidden territory, once, only to be entered at a master’s invitation. His heart beat a little faster, crossing the threshold into the echoing atrium. Their boots clicked on the tiled floor.

The domed ceiling was decorated with a painting of the Light of Divine Knowledge gifting the elemental forces of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water to Kalto the Sage. The goddess wasn’t wearing much, which perhaps explained the sage’s sheepish expression.

‘Excuse me.’ The speaker was a lanky, middle-aged man, remarkably pale, as if he had emerged from a lifetime in a prison cell. His robe was black with the white stripe indicating a scrivist adept. ‘Are you looking for someone?’

Simon bowed his head. ‘My name is Simon vai Oryche. I was a pupil here, many years ago.’

The scrivist squinted at him. ‘You and a great many others.’

‘I hoped to speak with Master Caleb, if he’s still here. Can you direct me?’ 

 ‘Oh.’ The man’s mouth twisted sourly. ‘He is. Down that corridor, the office is at the end on the right. If you can read, you will have no difficulty.’

The door, when they reached it, bore a polished brass plate reading: Caleb E.A, M.A. Simon knocked.

After a moment, a voice from within said: ‘Enter.’

Simon pushed the door open. Sunlight greeted him, streaming through tall windows into  an airy, high-ceilinged room. At the desk in front of the windows sat a large sothron man, hunched over a book.

Simon smiled. Caleb had been his favourite teacher. ‘Master Caleb.’

Caleb straightened. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I was expecting a pupil.’ He stood and extended a hand. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I don’t suppose you remember me,’ Simon said. ‘Simon vai Oryche.’

The master’s face went blank, then recognition dawned in his dark eyes. ‘Of course I remember. Young Simon of the Oryche.’ He grasped Simon’s hand and his voice faltered as he noticed the missing fingers. ‘Not so young any more. Sit down.’

There was one chair in front of the desk, another against the wall. Simon rearranged them for himself and Lorie. ‘My daughter, Lorie.’ 

Caleb acknowledged her with a nod. ‘You know, I always hoped you would return to complete your studies.’ He sighed. ‘ A strange business. Your father, dying so suddenly, and then you being sent away. There were a lot of rumours.’ 

‘I dare say.’ Simon shook his head ruefully. ‘But I’m pleased to find you here. Life seems to have treated you well, master.’ 

Caleb patted himself on the belly. ’A little heavier, a little greyer, a little wiser, I hope. But dispense with the master, please. You aren’t my student now. What brings you here?’

‘Business. I’m representing the miners of Sark.’ Simon leaned forward. ‘Master Caleb, they discovered something, in the mine — a Forerunner tomb, and the walls are decorated with glyphs. It’s an invocation, and probably new. New to us, that is.’ 

‘You’re sure?’ 

‘Lord Oryche wants it, but his offer was low. If the Arcanum outbids him, I’ll be more than happy to recommend you to the miners.’

‘How much are we talking?’

Simon took a breath, calculating. He wasn’t sure what to ask for, except that it should be more than Eranon’s offer, but low enough to be attractive. But if it was too low, he’d seem foolish, and be letting the miners down as well. Unfortunately, he really had no idea what the tomb was worth. ‘In the region of ten thousand forints.’

‘It’s not something I could decide on. Not my area, and I don’t have that sort of budget. I’ll raise it with the Head for you. The real experts will want to speak to you, before we commit to anything… but if it’s what you say, ten thousand is far from unreasonable.’

‘There’s another matter I wanted to discuss with you. Rather more personal. What’s required, for a child to be admitted to the Arcanum, to study?’

Caleb raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, money helps. The tuition fee is two hundred forints a year. Of course, for exceptional cases we can waive the fees. After all, no one wants a talented youngster experimenting on their own. A son of yours?’

Simon put his hand on Lorie’s arm. ‘My daughter, actually.’

‘You joke.’

‘No,’ Simon said. ‘I know it’s irregular—’

‘You can’t possibly be serious.’ 

‘Why not? Master—’ Simon shook his head. ‘Talent is talent, wherever it arises. Surely you can see that? People used to sneer at you because you were a foreigner, yet you never let their prejudice hold you back.’

‘This is entirely different. You know why women aren’t permitted to study arcane lore.’

‘Surely an exception can be made. Lorie has a remarkable talent. Unless she’s trained, she may be a danger to others as well as herself.’

Placing his hands on the desk, Caleb rose to his feet. ‘A woman can’t be trained. Not here, not anywhere.’

‘Lorie.’ Simon squeezed her hand. ‘Show him. Summon a salamander.’

‘What?’

‘You did it before. And you threw fire from your hands. Show him what you can do.’

Lorie cupped her hands. She closed her eyes and her brow creased in a frown of concentration.

Master Caleb folded his arms and waited. Simon watched the air in Lorie’s hands, counting the seconds. Her lips moved in a silent mutter.

Nothing happened.

Caleb laughed. ‘I didn’t think so. She might have more success summoning a mop.’

‘I’m sorry, Papa.’ Lorie hid her face in her hands. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just…’

Simon put his hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have asked that of you, without any warning. You aren’t a — a performing animal. And perhaps if Master Caleb remembered his own youth, and how it hurt to be laughed at by fools and dismissed for no reason but the colour of his skin, he wouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I thought he, at least, would give you a fair hearing. But now I know my mistake. Let’s go.’ He stood.

‘I’m sorry, Simon.’ Caleb grimaced. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. It was rude, and wrong of me. But the truth is, no woman has ever studied in the Arcanum, and the Masters, well—’ He spread his hands. ‘They’re men of firm opinions. However, I will speak to the Head about your… situation. Perhaps something can be arranged.’

Too angry to trust himself to speak, Simon merely nodded, and drew Lorie with him out of the office into the gloomy corridor. He shut the door quietly behind him. 

‘Damn him,’ he said. All the closed doors were laughing at him, sniggering their blank wooden refusals. You fool. You fool. What were you thinking?

Lorie hung her head. ‘I’m so sorry. I tried, but—’

He pulled her into a hug. She was trembling. ‘It was my fault. I should have known better. I just hoped... Never mind. Let’s get out of here.’

He strode along the corridor, looking neither right nor left, out through the hall and into the sunlit Campus. He scowled at the tubs of dying geraniums. ‘I really am sorry. I’ll take you to the Great Market, and you can buy yourself something nice. Fabric for a new dress, maybe.’ He ought to save his money for necessary expenses, but fabric for a pretty dress for Lorie wouldn’t cost much.

‘You don’t need to buy me anything. I don’t mind, really. You always told me it was impossible. Thank you for trying.’

She smiled, putting on a brave face, and succeeding better than he was. He was still seething—with Caleb, and the Arcanum, and the whole unfair tangle of existence that made such things possible. Any idiot son of a noble House could waste years of their life at the Arcanum, memorising glyphs until their tiny brains bled. Yet Lorie, who even without the talent she’d demonstrated, deserved it twenty times over, could not pass the door. It was wrong, and he was amazed it had taken him so long in life to discover it was wrong.

But he wouldn’t give up. She had to be trained, somehow. Perhaps a private apprenticeship with a Master, if he could find one willing? Of course, that would be problematic in other ways. Apprentices usually lived with their master, and he could hardly hand his sixteen-year-old daughter into the power of a stranger. 

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the market on the way home anyway. Maybe we’ll buy some salt cod for Nana.’