Page 4

The platform teemed with activists flinging pamphlets around and shouting about their chosen city chair candidates.

“Ladies! Ladies! Vote Nerys for Women’s Rights!”

“Widmont, I say! A chair for the people!”

“Tiran stands on its traditions!” a mustachioed man with an ‘Elect Perramis’ button on his waistcoat shoved a pamphlet at Alba, but Sciona got there first.

“She’s not interested.” She swatted the paper from the man’s hand to flutter to the pavement, and her purple robe was undoubtedly the only thing that made him back off.

“Thank you.” Taking her cousin’s arm, she deliberately trod on the Perramis pamphlet, sure to leave her square-heel boot impression on that face with its upsettingly familiar sharp brow and large eyes.

Beyond the train platform, the crowd thinned as mages, staff, and students all went their separate ways, but Alba’s mouth still hung open as she looked around at the great stone buildings of the university.

“You’ve been on campus before, haven’t you?” Sciona vaguely remembered Alba accompanying her to a few interviews during the application process many years ago.

“Yeah, it’s just…” Alba trailed off as Leon’s Hall came into view, its great intricate dome standing proud between the siphoning towers. “Wow…”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sciona smiled, as proud as Aunt Winny showing a guest into her lovingly furnished sitting room. Maybe it was silly, but the university really was home to Sciona in a way no hearth or kitchen ever would be.

While the larger additions to the Main Magistry building had come later, the great stone entrance had stood unchanged for three hundred years.

Tiran’s five Founding Mages loomed between the columns—Leon, Stravos, Kaedor, Vernyn, and Faene the First—each three stories of benevolent stone.

The art of sculpture had advanced in the intervening centuries, but there was something inimitably mighty about these works from the dawn of Tiran, their rough-hewn features and wise eyes inlaid with peridot to give them life.

Founding Mage Leon’s words glinted in polished alchemic gold above the doors:

To Tiran, the Bounty of the Otherrealm. To my Mages, all its Power.

May you ever be good Stewards to this Bright Haven in a world of darkness.

Carved below that was Faene the First’s motto and mission statement of the university:

Truth over delusion. Growth over comfort. God over all.

Sciona had to gather her skirts into a great bundle to climb the steps to the double doors.

She never would have worn such a fine bit of frippery to the university, but Aunt Winny had balked when her niece had come downstairs in the usual study blouse and pinafore.

To go before the archmages, Aunt Winny insisted, Sciona must look a proper lady.

How else would she get them to take her seriously?

Sciona could have pointed out that her spellwork was supposed to do that.

But she had been too dazed with nerves to object as her aunt manhandled her into the layers of petticoats and printed velvet.

The security conduits in the foyer registered the bronze clasp of Sciona’s robe, and a second set of doors opened to allow the women through.

This front chamber of the Main Magistry was accessible to all staff, students, and guests.

Some classes were even held in the two modern additions between Leon’s Hall and the siphoning towers.

The crowd was sparser during the winter break, but an assortment of mages flurried about preparing for the coming term, robes flapping dramatically behind them—mahogany for undergraduates, fern green for instructors and administrative staff, purple for junior researchers, white for the archmages who commanded them all.

The High Magistry exam always took place in Leon’s Hall beneath the dome where Tiran’s first Council had assembled. To get to the restricted historical chamber, Sciona and Alba had to pass a green-robed secretary. The elderly woman eyed Sciona’s robe for a moment before lighting up.

“Oh, you must be Sciona Freynan!” Her emerald eyes were all atwinkle as though she’d just seen a unicorn. “You and your friend can go on through to the antechamber. And good luck!”

The gossip mill had been at work within the Magistry if even the first-floor secretary knew there was a female applicant taking on the exam this year; the Council was usually secretive about who they were considering.

The way the secretary raised her fist in encouragement made Sciona wonder if she had been at that desk the last time a hopeful woman passed these doors to break on the challenges beyond.

Perhaps, she herself had once dreamed of the High Magistry but had let those dreams go at some point in her career, succumbing to the pressures of tradition and practicality.

Stop that, Sciona, the voice of reason warned. You’re spinning worst-case scenarios where they don’t exist.

But was she? How unreasonable was it to expect failure where no woman had ever succeeded?

Realistically, Sciona’s purpose was to fail here.

Realistically, her future would be the same as that secretary’s—trapped behind a tiny desk, serving her male superiors until her quick hands slowed and her mind rotted from idleness.

Could Sciona live that sort of future? Could she bear it?

Her steps slowed as she reached the antechamber, which was already half-full of purple-robed applicants and their male relatives.

These men all belonged to good families.

Old magic. Old money. They were the ones meant to succeed here, while Sciona was meant to backslide neatly into her predestined position.

Secretary. Assistant. Wife. The shadowy truth had been gnawing at the edges of Sciona’s consciousness for weeks.

It swelled now, darkening the way ahead.

There was no life beyond this exam. If she didn’t pass, she couldn’t go on living. And yet, how could she pass?

Existential terror seized Sciona, swarming her vision with blackness. The blurring floor was rushing up to meet her—when a swish of white drove back the dark like Leon before the Horde.

Archmage Derrith Bringham.

Sciona stumbled, found her feet, and looked up at her mentor. The archmage was in full regalia, gold ropes of distinction hanging from the shoulders of his white robes. Holy light.

“Ah, there she is!” he beamed, arms outstretched. “My soon-to-be highmage, Miss Freynan! And Miss Livian, delightful to see you.”

“Y-you remember me, Archmage?” Now, it seemed that Alba might be the one to faint.

“Miss Freynan’s lovely cousin? How could I forget?”

Alba flushed pink beneath her freckles like she was a schoolgirl.

Maybe it was just that men didn’t often call Alba lovely; she was on the tall side for a woman, with a squarish jaw and more muscle in her arms than most men liked.

Bringham simply had a gift for telling people what they needed to hear.

“Chin up now, child.” The archmage turned back to Sciona. “They’re going to want to see a little confidence.”

“Alright,” Sciona breathed. Just not too much confidence, she thought, or the testers would think her arrogant. Half of Tiran probably thought it arrogant for a woman to attempt the exam at all.

“You look ill, Miss Freynan. Are you going to lose your breakfast?”

Maybe. Sciona shook her head. “It’s just nerves, sir. I’m fine.”

“Since when is Sciona Freynan nervous for any test?”

“I…”

“Since when is she afraid of a challenge?”

“I don’t know.” Since the roadmap had vanished.

All obstacles to this point had been within Sciona’s control—conquerable with deep thought and hard work.

Earning an advanced degree in sourcing had been hard, but other women had done it before.

Working as an archmage’s assistant had been grueling, but students younger than Sciona had done it before.

There was precedent. Highmagehood was the first mark that seemed out of reach, no matter how perfectly Sciona performed.

“Freynan,” Bringham’s voice brought her firmly back to the present. “Listen to me. This is a task like any other. It is within your power.”

Of course, Bringham had the right words. Whether they were true was a different matter.

“No nerves, now,” he said as if it were that simple. “We both know nothing can stop you once you get your teeth into a spell. Just wait. My fellow archmages are going to eat their words about you.”

“There were words about me?” Sciona said, wishing the thought didn’t make her quite so queasy.

“They’re paying attention. For the purposes of this exam, that’s a good thing.”

“Is it?”

“It can be. But you shouldn’t bother yourself about that. Let me worry about the other archmages. You just focus on giving the usual Freynan over-performance, yes?”

And, Feryn, Sciona wanted to be worthy of the confidence in his smile.

Archmage Bringham had staked his credibility on her when he pushed so hard to have her application considered.

If she fell short today, she wouldn’t just be ruining opportunities for other women.

She would be damaging Bringham’s reputation—after everything he had done for her.

“I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

“Not possible,” he said. “Now, I should get back to the other archmages. As always, we have a great deal of needless last-minute squabbling over the particulars of the exam. You’ll want to be in there soon, too, Freynan.

” He lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“I get the feeling you’ll be less nervous after you take stock of the competition.

” He winked and turned in the direction of Leon’s Hall.

“Alright.” Sciona gave Alba’s hand a last squeeze. “I guess I’ll see you on the other side.”

“I’ll be right here when you’re done,” said Alba.

“Oh, Miss Livian.” Bringham turned back to the two women. “Wouldn’t you like to watch?”

“Watch?”

“Applicants often bring fathers and brothers to their examinations, and you’re Miss Freynan’s family, aren’t you?”