Dwayne had left the entrance hall right as Anda and Lyna began their assault on Kasra, not because of how the Paecergad Massacre had been retold as a heroic tale of reclamation, or because everyone, including Mei, loved the performance, but because right then, he spotted Thadden and Ziegler had slipping out together.
Muttering some excuse he knew the entranced Mei wouldn’t hear, Dwayne stepped away and followed the baron and his ally out into the corridor leading to the Grand Ballroom. Neither man noticed, their attention entirely on the conversation they were having. They weren’t walking fast either, Dwayne could catch up to them, maybe even maybe catch snippets of what they were talking about, but if they did notice him, what was his excuse going to be? That he was bored? That he just wanted to ask a few questions?
Those questions wouldn’t be the kind an apprentice would ask his prospective master nor would they allow said master to continue believe said apprentice had nothing but faith in their arrangement. From the Thadden’s promise to start the legal process to free Akunna to the way every single one of his allies had glanced at Dwayne’s empty finger, from the baron’s hostile interrogation at the examination to his clear disappointment that Dwayne had passed the Slips Test, Dwayne had ample reason for doubt. What made things worse was that Dwayne’s actual allies - Mei who’d risked life and limb to defend Sanford, Rodion who’d worked tirelessly to get the estate ready, and Magdala who’d taken on an almost impossible project just to lighten his load - had never filled Dwayne’s stomach with the queasy feeling that they really weren’t on his side. However, queasy feelings and other indirect indications were not enough for Dwayne to break his commitments. For that, he needed inarguable proof.
Further down the corridor, Thadden and Ziegler continued to walk and talk, completely ignorant of Dwayne’s anguish.
Of course, one way to get such proof would be to march up to them and ask, but the baron would give evasive, if not outright false, answers, which would leave Dwayne’s stomach ever more unsettled. There wasn’t any other way though.
“My lord?” Rodion appeared at Dwayne’s elbow. “Are you okay?”
“Ye-” Dwayne had to cough to clear his throat. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“Was the performance that upsetting? Or,” Rodion looked down the corridor, “did something come up?”
He knew the answer of course. He was wanted Dwayne to say it out loud.
Dwayne tried to talk himself out of his present course of action. Baron Thadden did have two advantages over Lord Kalan: he was here and he was interested in being here. Possibly, it was better for the queendom to have any Royal Sorcerer than to have none. Possibly, that was enough for the Queen, but that wasn’t enough for Dwayne.
Rodion was still waiting. If Dwayne laughed it off, said something about just needing air, and returned to the entrance hall, that would be the end of it.
But not that queasy feeling.
“I want to know what the baron really thinks of me,” said Dwayne finally.
“You…” Rodion’s eyes widened. “You want to spy on him?”
“No, I…” Dwayne hadn’t thought of spying, but, “Yes.”
“Understood.” Rodion glanced down the corridor, where Thadden and Ziegler had just turned left to head to the Grand Ballroom. “Do you trust me?”
“With my life.”
The steward smiled a sad smile. “No hesitation.”
“What?” asked Dwayne.
“Nothing.” Rodion took Dwayne’s hand. “Come with me.”
The steward led Dwayne down the corridor and up to a tapestry depicting the whole of the queendom, which he pulled away to reveal a closet.
“How did you-”
“I have been here all day.” Rodion pushed Dwayne into the closet and closed them in. “It’s a big palace, and- My lord!”
“Ri’t.” Dwayne winced as the little candle-flame, a result of his surprise at the sudden darkness, above their heads went out. “Sorry.”
Rodion’s voice sounded unsteady. “You can cast silently?”
“I-”
“Wait, we don’t have time. Cast it again. I need the light.”
Dwayne hesitated. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Yes, but so is spying on an Associate Secretary.”
“Ah, right. Ri’a’tha.” The candleflame popped back into being. “Now what?”
“Turn around, take off your jacket, and hand it to me.”
Dwayne complied. “Are you going to make me wear yours? Will that be enough?” He left the other, more obvious question unspoken.
“That’s part of it.” Not answering the unspoken question, Rodion put his suit jacket on Dwayne. “Now you’ll have to trust me.”
“I trusted you enough to let you drag me into a closet and make me to take off my clothes.” There was the sharp intake of breath behind him. “Don’t worry. I know you’ve not been leading me on.”
“R-right. When I put my hands over your ears, hum.”
Now the unspoken question had many silent friends. Dwayne nodded. “Okay.”
When the steward’s hands covered his ears, Dwayne began to hum, aimlessly at first, until he hit a familiar series of notes and found a soft slow tune that reminded him of waves and stars and warmth.
He was still wondering at where it came from when Rodion took his hands away. “I’m done.”
Blinking away tears, Dwayne turned to the steward. “I’m ready?”
“You’re ready.” Rodion was busying himself with Dwayne’s jacket. “When I open the door, go straight to the ballroom. When you find him, walk up behind him and don’t speak. Souran nobles like Thadden don’t care what people behind them hear because they’re mattered they’d be in front of them.”
“That… makes sense.” Dwayne fanned his face, which was strangely warm. “Anything else?”
“I’ll find you afterwards. Douse the light.” After Dwayne did so, Rodion opened the closet and peeked out. “Okay, go.”
He pushed Dwayne out from behind the tapestry and into a gaggle of nobles. When he saw them, Dwayne froze, ready for a a torrent of suggestive comments, but they barely noticed him as they passed, almost as if he’d turned invisible.
Rodion’s jacket - out of respect for the steward, Dwayne would not ask the unspoken question even to himself - must make him look more like a servant, despite the fact that it barely fit him.
Best not question it.
Dwayne turned to the Grand Ballroom and started walking.
***
Peeking out from behind the curtain, Magdala spotted deans and bishops, ship captains and caravan bosses, nobles from as far afield as Ti Mei, the Tuqu Empire Ambassador and their coterie, the Ri Vice-Consul and her guards, the Privy Councilors and their clerks, Her Majesty and her entire family, and, of course, all three Sages of the Magisterium. When she retreated back behind the curtain, her hands clammy with sweat, she pondered how even the Grand Ballroom wasn’t big enough to make that many people seem small.
“Lady Gallus?”
And with her parents in the audience, would Dean Laurence’s trick really calm her nerves?
“Lady Gallus.”
Or would it mentally scar instead?
“Young Gallus!”
Magdala snapped back to the moment. “Uh, yes?”
“Do you need anything else?” asked the tall, sun-touched noble in a gray suit.
“Oh, uh,” Magdala peeked back at the stage and actually looked this time. “No, we’re ready, Dame Sercombe.”
“Good.” Sercombe smiled as Magdala returned to peeking at the crowd. “Nervous?”
Magdala grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”
“I’ve seen a lot of first Royal Offerings.” Sercombe lowered her voice. “Want a bit of advice?”
Magdala groaned. “I’ve already been told to imagine the audience unclothed.”
“Oh, no,” Sercombe laughed, “that’s horrible advice, for you in particular. Even if your parents weren’t out there, you know these people. Removing their clothing would only be distracting.”
Magdala would have said appalling, but the image of a shirtless Dwayne watching her on stage with that intense look contradicted her.
“Ah, um, ahem.” Magdala tried to ignore how warm her face had gotten. “What’s your advice?”
Sercombe gestured at the audience. “Connect with them. When you out there, find one person and talk to them. Make the Offering a conversation instead of a performance.”
“I see. I think.” Mei had to be out there, right? She was a great listener. She’d choose Dwayne, but now that image was stuck in her head. “I’ll try that. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Sercombe inspected Magdala’s face. “Looks like your makeup is done. Remember, you and your group go on right after the introduction.”
“I remember.”
“Then good luck!”
As Sercombe left, Magdala turned to her team. “Ready?”
Colin kept touching his face. “Do I really have to wear make-up?”
“Yes and stop touching it. You’ll smear it.” After plucking Colin’s hand away from his face, Francesca held up a box of matches. “Ready.”
“Colin?” Magdala asked.
“Not ready,” said Colin, “but also not ready to disappoint the Dean, so let’s do it.”
“That’s the spirit!” said Francesca.
“Okay.” Magdala shook her hands out. “Okay. Maybe we go over the plan again?”
“Only if you think it would help,” said Francesca.
“I think it would help,” said Colin.
“Okay.” Magdala clasped her hands together. “So first I-”
“Welcome one and all to this year’s Mage’s Offerings. First up, the College of Martial Magic’s Magic Core. Offered by the Heir to Tarpan, Lady Magdala Stefanie Gallus.”
Magdala gulped. “Here we go.”
One deep breath and a handful of steps took her to the center of the stage, where the magnesium lights were brightest. There, she made one last frantic inventory: two large azade spheres placed on stone plinths at either end of the stage, five twenty-seven doun steel blocks arranged along the stage’s edge, and seven large jugs filled with water placed along the back. These hadn’t been required in their original plan, but they needed something to impress Her Majesty, and this was all that Francesca’s contacts and Magdala’s name could get on short notice.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
As Colin took up position to her right and Francesca did to her left, Magdala cleared her throat. “Good e-evening.” Cups, what was Dame Sercombe’s advice? Right. Magdala tried to search for Mei, but instead her eyes found Her Majesty, Dean Bruce, and her mother, none of whom were good conversation partners. “My name is Magdala Gallus and, uh, I’m the Heir to Tarpan.”
The awkwardness of the unnecessary repetition was apparent in Her Majesty’s stony expression, in the dean’s pained look, and in the resignation that settled onto her mother’s face as if this was exactly what she’d expected to happen. Which was unfair. Not everyone could be the youngest graduate out of the Magisterium Academy in a century. Not everyone had the confidence to walk up to the scion of one of the most powerful families in the Queendom and flirt with him. Not everyone was the cups-blessed Water Sage.
Suddenly, Magdala’s clammy hands, her beating heart, her nervousness didn’t matter, because, while Magdala didn’t know performance and was awful at conversation, she was great at argument.
She straightend up.
“Apologies, allow me to start again. Good evening, lords and ladies, merchants and masters, I am Magdala Gallus, Heir to Tarpan and,” she pressed her hand against her chest, muttered nQerm under her breath, “an nQe mage.” As the crowd gasped at how the cream of her dress darkened to emerald green, at how the crimson mustangs morphed into golden axes, she spread her arms. “These are my teammates: Colin Fletcher,” the other nQe’s magic pulverized a steel block into dust, “and Francesca Lucchesi,” a tempest ruffled more than a few skirts, “and we’re here to change your understanding of magic.
“You don’t believe me.” She addressed this to an apoplectic noble in brown and gold robes. “A few months ago, I wouldn’t have believed me either, but then I got myself suspended,” the look on her mother’s face was delicious, “and sent to live with my lord uncle Batholomew Kalan. He and his apprentice Dwayne were trying to answer questions I’d never bothered to ask before: where does magic come from? How does it work? And how is Souran Qe magic different from Wesen Ri or Tuquese Xa magic?
“Now, I fell asleep during Introduction to Thaumaturgical Theory,” there was a scattering of laughter, “but somewhere in my nearly incomprehensible notes was the notion that casting magic was like burning fuel. Qe magic burns like coal, powerful and long-lasting. nQe magic burns like paper, brief and leaving a weird smell afterwards.” More laughter. “We’re born with this magic, this fuel, inside us, and, according to my lectures, that’s why it’s hard for us to do other magic. Just like you wouldn’t use coal to start a fire, just like you wouldn’t use paper to heat a home, you wouldn’t ask a Qe mage to do nQe or an nQe mage to do Qe magic.
“This,” Magdala explained on her way over to the right plinth, “is the essence of Emittance Theory, which describes magic as an expression of a changeless self. Only, I don’t think anyone ever tested it not until my lord uncle and his apprentice.”
She placed her hand on the azade sphere. “is a Qe core, which we made tonight from azade. It’s pretty, isn’t it? You can’t tell because of the lights, but it glows, which is not a known property of azade.” Neither was the thrumming, which was honestly a little creepy. “Mr. Fletcher has one too,” Colin pulled a small core out of his pocket, “and both will increase the power of our Qe magic. Still, we need a third one for Miss Lucchesi. So, let’s make one now.”
While she’d been talking, Magdala project partners had been busy, disintegrating steel blocks and turned the dust into disks, strengthening the tempest and pushing it up into the rafters. Now they joined Magdala in the center of the stage, Francesca carrying the azade, Colin himself. Both of them looked much better now, their eyes gleaming, their expressions expectant.
When she and Colin had taken up positions across the azade, Magdala said, “On your mark, Mr. Fletcher.”
“nQeanum!” Colin waited for a few heartbeats then nodded.
“nQerikwem!” shouted Magdala.
Letting Colin lead had required Magdala to admit that she was being high-handed again. It had been the right call. With his hardening spell already in place, all her spell had to do was edge outwards until it was right up to where nQeanum held sway. Once she was sure that nQerikwem had liquefied every bit of azade available, Magdala joined Colin in waiting for the azade to settle. When it did, Magdala nodded.
“Qe!”
Francesca’s magic rammed the unformed spell right into the liquefied azade, which writhed and bucked as it tried to become solid. Magdala fought this, nQerikwem doing all it could to keep solid flecks from forming in the material. Her efforts made pressure build up in the azade, a process Colin strained to contain with nQeanum. It was these two reactions, the azade’s desire to become solid and this sudden rise in internal pressure, that made this so hard. Allow the azade to become solid and Colin’s magic would catch it and make it dust. Allow the pressure build and Magdala’s magic would catch it and make it explode. But they couldn’t stop, they had to hold it, they had to keep casting until-
The azade thrummed began. “Stop!” said Magdala.
As all three mages stopped casting, the azade’s components snapped into place with a high clear hum and a blast of wet chilly air. They’d done it.
Breathing hard, Magdala turned back to the audience, ready to resume her argument.
“Wooo!”
“Oh, a fan,” said Francesca to audience laughter.
That had sounded like Dwayne, but the whoop had come from a pale boy in an ill-fitting green suit jacket, so not him.
She cleared her throat. “With this new core, we can show you what Soura’s mages can really do.”
Colin stepped forward and raised his core. “Qeuicienumke.”
One hundred and thirty-five douns of steel plate rose into the air to orbit Francesca’s ongoing tempest. That much weight, nothing for an earthhoist, would have been nearly impossible for an nQe mage.
Her turn. Magdala stepped to the right plinth and placed her hand on the Qe core. “Qenutthumrut!”
For a moment, there was that familiar heft, like she was about to lift a boulder with just her fingertips, but then the azade thrummed, and from the jugs behind her, seven streams of water flowed, braided together, and coiled around tempest and disks.
What Magdala would give to see the shock on her mother’s face as her nQe daughter cast the very spell that had gave her the highest marks on the Master Mage Examination, but she had to concentrate as Francesca took her azade back to the other plinth, set it down, and lit a match. “nQeoum!”
She tossed the match up into her tempest.
Later, Magdala would recall that the original plan was for Francesca to transmute a single breath of air into its components and set that alight. But Francesca was Qe, which meant that not only had she cast nQeoum only three times in her life, she thought nothing of creating a tempest large enough to fill three hundred chests.
Luckily, there was water to soften the blast.
***
As servants rushed to repair the stage after Magdala’s explosive Offering, Dwayne slipped in behind Thadden and Ziegler’s table, still stunned that he’d made it this far. Even his whoop of excitement had drawn few reactions. He could get used to this.
In front of him, the baron took a sip of his wine as Ziegler’s fingers tapping out a slow waltz on the table.
“Well,” Thadden put his goblet down with a thump, “that was appalling.”
“Was it?” Ziegler nodded in the royal direction. “Her Majesty seems hardly impressed, and I doubt this highly theatrical stunt, even performed by one such as the daughter of the Water Sage, has hulled your precious Emittance Theory.”
“That was not theatrics,” hissed Thadden.
Dwayne agreed. There was no way that the blast of cold wet air and that unmistakable, if still enigmatic, bird-like symbol was the result of two simple nQe spells.
“You are no mage,” continued Thadden. “You couldn’t hear that unmistakable hum when they made that thing.”
Dwayne blinked. He hadn’t heard it either.
“Then Her Majesty didn’t either and you’re safe,” said Ziegler.
“His Royal Highness definitely heard it,” said Thadden. “Every mage in the room heard it.”
His Royal Highness Tor Jensen the Royal Consort was the only member of the royal family who was still watching the Mage’s Offerings. The Queen and her heir were winding and greeting their way through the room with a squad of Palace guards following close behind them. This put Magdala’s Offering in a new light. It had been worth real Royal attention.
“Even so,” Ziegler leaned in, “this feat has to be more young Gallus’s than young Kalan’s-”
“Do not call him that,” spat Thadden. “Using such an address for that, that, boy is an affront to the Queendom.”
Hearing that made Dwayne’s decision obvious, but it also hurt so Dwayne was about to leave when Ziegler said, “Otto, we’re almost at the shores of victory. Don’t veer away now.”
“Yes, I know.” Thadden nodded. “I know. It’s just…consider if the boy were Souran, just some bastard Kalan had spawned while he was away. Imagine what we could accomplish together with that mind harnessed to my discipline.”
Said hypothetical bastard was unlikely to like the idea of being harness. The actual Dwayne definitely didn’t.
“You would not want some other man’s bastard to be your apprentice,” said Ziegler, “particularly since the Church would be then on his father’s side.”
The baron waved that way. “Yes, yes, I’d have to get rid of him sooner or later, but in the meantime I could make sure that he learned to be a proper mage. You know, I had lunch with Corn the other day.”
“Corn? He’s hardly a fan of yours.”
“He’s not, but I needed to talk to him to discover how the boy could have cheated the Slips Test. However, when I brought the matter up, the man burst into tears over a paper the boy had written.”
“Tears!”
Dwayne’s fists tightened. It was great to know that Professor Corn had tried to fail him out of hatred and not the quality of the work.
“I read the paper.” Thadden shook his head. “It’s not possible that the boy wrote it, the grasp of rhetoric and argument required is far too advanced for his kind, but Corn was convinced it was his work.” He sighed. “I don’t know how he does it.”
“Does what?”
“Gets his papers written for him by Kalan.”
Because Dwayne having a man over a day away by windsong flight to write his papers for him was more believable that Dwayne doing it himself.
“What do you mean you don’t know how?” asked Ziegler. “I thought you made… arrangements.”
Thadden narrowed his eyes. “Ziegler…”
“I know, I know, that’s your business and yours alone, but allow me to say I’m not surprised that the apprentice of Bartholomew Kalan has turned out to be a degenerate cheat.”
“I wish.” Thadden leaned in. “A degenerate wouldn’t have the audacity to give away those little fire charms; he wouldn’t have the gall to violate the combat taboo; he wouldn’t have impressed not just the Sages, not just the Privy Council, but the Throne herself!”
“Now, now,” Ziegler cooed, “let’s not overstate things here. Only two of the Privy Councilors appear to be on his side. Neither Her Highness nor the High Judge are particularly enamored with him.”
“That sly Head Guard of his is dealing with that; the Chamber’s scrytives are besotted with her. Given time, she’d convince them to convince their boss to go trotting at the boy’s heels. With three Councillors on his side, even Her Highness couldn’t stand firm.”
“Then be glad she won’t have the time. Because by tomorrow morning,” Ziegler raised a glass, “you’ll be Royal Sorcerer.”
Dwayne could let that happen. Surely, working for someone who hated him couldn’t be harder than being a slave, and there was so much to do at the Royal Sorcerer’s Office that Thadden wouldn’t have the time to push Dwayne out for at least a year or so. In the meantime, Dwayne could focus on his research, take what Magdala had started to new heights, and maybe find some other place to be. All he had to do was work for someone who hated him.
“That may be,” Thadden hadn’t raised his glass, “but that Offering of Lady Gallus’s daughter flaunted the natural order of things and threatened the foundation that enables our Queendom to flourish. Look at what they showed us. Qe mages doing nQe magic? nQe mages doing Qe magic? Mages doing magic they weren’t born to? There’s a reason things are they way they are and denying that means we become like Dean Bruce, holding nothing sacred.”
“She did sign off on this Offering.” Ziegler looked into his goblet. “Perhaps the boy’s helm is in her hands.”
“Perhaps.” Thadden finished his wine. “Well, that’s enough grousing. I should find the boy, I mean young Kalan, and get this over with. Then we can celebrate a crisis averted.”
“Here, here.”
Dwayne watched the two of them get up and leave. He was doomed. Tonight, the Queen of Soura was going called him in for an audience, and he was going to have to tell her right to her face that he didn’t have a candidate, which would trade the slow drip of months of stress and humiliation for an immediate burst of shame.
If only he’d run away the day of the Session.
“Dwayne?”
“Rodion?” Dwayne blinked away tears. “I think I’m in trouble.”
“Here,” the steward put a plate of food in Dwayne’s hands. “You should eat something.”
That seemed pointless. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Just take a moment.” Rodion handed Dwayne a fork. “Let’s go outside and get some air.”
Because that sounded like a good idea, Dwayne let Rodion lead him out into the North Gardens. Since the sun had set long ago, and the air was filled with Bradford’s familiar drizzle, the only light came from the Palace windows, which muffled the sounds of the Ball that Dwayne never wanted to return to. Taking a seat on a bench, he wiped his face with his sleeve, pretended that it was wet from the rain.
“Before you eat,” Rodion stepped behind Dwayne, “hum for me.”
Dwayne sniffed. “Why?”
“It’ll center you.”
The unspoken question reared its head, but as Rodion’s hands covered Dwayne’s ears, he dismissed it and started humming that boring waltz from Ziegler’s lesson, which was a mistake because when Rodion stepped away, he didn’t feel remotely centered, just warm from whatever Rodion had done.
“Now,” Rodion sat next to him, “tell me what happened.”
Dwayne put the plate down on his lap. “He’s planning to replace me.”
“Oh.”
Dwayne’s eyes narrowed. That was not surprise. “You knew?”
Rodion shrugged. “I guessed. He doesn’t act like an ally.”
“It was that obvious, huh?” Dwayne laughed. “Was everyone else just waiting for me to figure it out?”
“You are an optimistic person.”
“You mean foolish.”
“No,” Rodion put his hand on Dwayne’s shoulder, “I mean that you hope things go well. I mean that when you meet someone, you assume that they’ll do the right thing. Sometimes they do does. Sometimes, they don’t. Oh?” The steward’s ears perked up. “The music’s started.” He grinned. “I know exactly what you need.”
“A head start and a swift carriage?”
“No.” Rodion stood up, swept Dwayne’s damp wig off his head, and slipped the green jacket off his shoulders. “Someone to dance with.”
“What?”
“Here.” Rodion wrestled Dwayne back into his own jacket and stepped back. “Better. Now, eat. I know you’ll figure out a way out of this. You defeated a vengehna; you can beat a sour old baron. I’ll be right back.”
Before Dwayne could protest, the steward was gone, his long loping steps already taken him back into the Ballroom. With nothing else to do, Dwayne took one bite of food, which ignited his appetite and led him to devour the rest. As he ate, his mind focused on how delicious every bite was and not on how much time he’d wasted learning etiquette from Ziegler, how perfect Rodion’s pronunciation of the word vengehna was or how doomed he was.