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CHAPTER ONE

As I look at the rows of faces seated before me, some excited, some angry, some blank, and some… well, let’s just say that “blank” would be a compliment, I wonder how the fucking fuck my life came to this.

Oh yeah, it’s because I have a smart mouth and don’t know when to shut up.

Sighing, I perch on the edge of the desk at the front of the room. The wide banks of windows letting in a flood of morning sunshine are the only good thing in my life right now. “Welcome, all, to the Academy of Mages. You’re here because, for reasons nobody has ever been able to determine, you were born with a Talent, and it happens to be magic.” My gaze skims the room again, and not for the first time since I got stuck teaching this class, I wonder if the gods’ idea of humor is allocating magical power to random people on a whim. “My name is Talon Silverbright, and I’ll be your professor for Introduction to Magic.” I pause. I’ve been teaching for five years, and this is inevitably when?—

In the third row, a young man scoffs. If I remember the student profiles right—and I always do—he’s the third son of a wealthy merchant with the reputation of being a bully. Oh, goody. “You? A professor? You’re barely older than we are. Is this a joke? Who are you really, another student?”

I smile at him. I’ve practiced it in the mirror, so I know it’s not a nice one. “I’m a level-2 mage, little boy. If you like, I can dangle you above the chasm outside to prove it. It’s a lovely fifty-foot drop to the bottom… but I wouldn’t drop you. Would you prefer me to hold you by the ankle or the neck? I’m told the ankle makes all the blood rush to your head and feels quite uncomfortable, but with the neck, your breathing is cut off, so…” I shrug as though the decision is equally weighted. “Your choice.”

For maybe the first time in his life, he seems uncertain. His father’s position probably shielded him from threats, but I don’t believe in babying students. Becoming a mage is hard . It takes dedication and focus and a complete acknowledgment of your teacher’s authority. If I give an instruction that’s disobeyed at a crucial moment, the student could literally die. I’m sure they regret their disobedience then, but they wouldn’t be around to ask. I pride myself on being such an ass to my students that I’ve never lost one.

While Mr. Baby Merchant tries to decide if he believes me or not, a girl in the front row half-raises a hand. “If you’re a mage, why aren’t you wearing robes?”

“Because they’re hot and bloody uncomfortable,” I retort. “All that fabric flapping around just gets in the way. It’s also highly flammable, and you first years have a disturbing habit of accidentally starting fires. I’d rather not be kindling just to satisfy your sense of the appropriate.”

She nods slowly, disappointment on her face. She’s from a backwater farming region, and I’m pretty sure I just shattered whatever fairy-tale idea she had of mages. Just as well. If she thinks I’m a let-down, just wait until she meets Master Freir. He might wear robes, but they’re the same ones he received when he graduated fifty or so years ago, and we’re all pretty sure they haven’t been washed since then.

“Okay then. Since that’s settled, let’s move on. In my experience, there are three kinds of student in this classroom right now. Some of you don’t want to be here. Don’t worry, I understand. I don’t want to be here either.”

“Then why are you?” Mr. Baby Merchant snipes, finally recovered from his fear of me actually being able to dangle him over the chasm. I give him a look that promises I can absolutely, definitely follow through on that particular threat, and he shrinks back slightly.

“Because when I was a student, I pissed off a lot of people. All of them being wiser than me, they bided their time until I graduated and then got their revenge by sticking me with teaching this class. It’s the one nobody wants, by the way. Introducing you to magic is tiresome, frustrating, and occasionally dangerous.” I smile at him again. “I’m still not as wise as my old professors and tend to take my revenge at the earliest opportunity.”

His face goes sheet white, but then his mouth twists in a sneer. Yep. He’s going to do it.

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying. You’re probably just a messenger from our real professor. Tell us where he is, right now!”

I reach out with my magic and open the big window at the back of the room. As the breeze gusts in and half the students turn to see where it’s coming from, I seize hold of Mr. Baby Merchant and levitate him out of his chair.

His scream gets the attention of every eye in the room, and they watch in shock and horror as he floats toward the window… and through it, despite his desperate attempt to grab hold of the frame.

As my magic carries him farther from the safety of the academy and out over the middle of the chasm, I stroll to the back of the classroom and lean out the window. “Neck or ankle?” I call, as casually as if I’m asking whether he likes milk with his tea.

He says something that’s so creatively filthy, I’m impressed. Nevertheless, I tsk. “Choose, or I’ll just drop you.” I loosen my hold on his waist a little. He doesn’t have to know there’s a pillow of air ten feet below him, just in case.

His eyes widen in terror. “Ankle! Ankle!”

Obligingly, I flip him upside down and dangle him from his ankle. “Do you believe I’m your professor now?”

His nod is frantic. “Yes! Yes, Professor! I’m sorry.”

I flip him upright again and float him back toward the window. “No need to be sorry, friend. Questioning things is a sign of intelligence.” As he reenters the room, I close the window and then set him gently in his chair. “Just be prepared for the fact that sometimes, the consequences of asking questions can be different from what you expected. The trick is to ask the right questions.”

I stroll back to the front of the room as he sags in his seat. Every other gaze follows my steps, and petty satisfaction fills me. I feel a tug at the corner of my mind that’s linked to my twin sister.

“Not now. I’m in the middle of intimidating the new first years,” I tell her, and hear the mental echo of her laughter.

“I wondered why you were so happy. You can tell me all about it later.”

I let go of her mind—I’m the telepath, not her—and give the class my full attention again.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. Some of you don’t want to be here, but since you have an ability that, untrained, can kill you, all your loved ones, and potentially a whole lot of other people, the law requires you to attend the academy. If that’s you, you probably already know that once you pass your first-year exams, your legal obligation will be met and you’ll be considered to have enough control of your powers to rejoin the general population, should you choose to do so.”

A few faces around the room relax. Not everyone wants to be a mage. Some of my peers are irritated by those people. They feel that anyone who’s been “blessed” with magic should be required to commit to life as a mage. Me, not so much. I’d rather be surrounded by colleagues who actually want to be here than those who are forced to be. My uncle is one of those people, and trust me, nobody wants him to have detailed knowledge of magic. It’s bad enough he knows the little he was taught in his first year.

“Some of you,” I continue, “are excited to be here. You were thrilled when your tests showed you have an aptitude for magic, and you can’t wait to throw yourself into your studies. I can’t wait to see how many of you still feel that way at the end of the year.” That was a little mean, even for me. The truth is, most of the students who feel genuine determination right now will make it through to graduation. Their ideals and preconceptions will change, but a lot of them probably knew there was something different about themselves even before they took their tests. I did. I’ve known since I was a small child that magic was my destiny.

“And then there’s the third group.” My tone indicates what I think of them. “You’re not all that excited about the idea of being a mage, but hey, everyone knows that mages live here in the City of Knowledge rent-free, right? All you’ve gotta do is graduate, and then you can spend the rest of your life coasting by, all because of an accident of birth. That has to be better than farming, or trading, or squabbling with your siblings for a share of Daddy’s money.” I don’t bother to smile this time. “I’ve found that those of you in this group don’t tend to read the curriculum or try to find out the hierarchy of mages, so let’s take a minute to go over that. First, you spend four years at the academy. That’s four.” I hold up four fingers, because in past years I’ve given this speech and then had someone ask me how many years it would take to graduate. He was one of the students who kept accidentally setting himself on fire, too.

“Now, it might not be four,” I caution. “Some of you might need a little longer. Magic is powerful and unpredictable, and learning to control it isn’t easy. But at a minimum, it will take four ”—I hold up the fingers again—“years to graduate.”

A hand at the back goes up. It belongs to one of the eager students—who is from a family with six generations of mages. She probably already knows a few tricks. “What if we learn fast? Can we skip ahead and graduate early?”

I shrug. “One thing I’ve learned since I came here is not to say ‘never.’ Things that seem impossible could just be problems we don’t have the right knowledge to solve yet. Having said that, it hasn’t happened in the seven thousand years of the academy’s history. There are often exceptionally bright students who are quick to master tasks. Your teachers will give you more advanced tasks that are tailored to your abilities if that’s the case. There are reasons the masters don’t want students graduating in fewer than four years.” I don’t tell them what those reasons are. It’ll give them something fun to speculate about over lunch.

“So, I’ll bet you’re all thinking, four years until graduation, then a life on Easy Street.” I fold my arms. “Sorry. That’s wrong. Once you graduate, you’ll be a level-1 mage. By then, your special skills will have made themselves known, and you’ll be apprenticed to a master who specializes in that field. You’ll be expected to continue your studies, to hone your abilities and become a level-2 mage. Depending on your aptitude and focus, that takes an average of six years.” I hold up six fingers. “The fastest anyone’s ever done it was in two years.” I lower one hand and fold down three fingers on the other. I did it in three years. I was distracted, though—Tia was on courier duty for eight months during that time, and having her so far away so often messed with my focus. I’ve since worked out how to deal with that, as long as we’re not separated over huge distances for more than a month at a time.

“After you become a level-2 mage, you’ll continue your studies. On average, it takes longer at level-2 than level-1, because that’s when you’ll start dealing with the exotic stuff.” Aka, the fun stuff. “Most people get to level-3 within eight years.” I’m aiming for the end of this year, myself, which will be three again. My next goal? To become the youngest ever mage to attain the rank of master. The record currently is by age thirty-four, so I have seven years left to do it. “Once you’re at level-3, it can take anywhere from two to twenty years for you to be recognized as a master.” I smile. This time, it’s kind and benevolent. “So if we add all those average years up, we have four, plus six, plus eight, plus nine. What does that equal?”

Mostly blank faces stare at me, and I resist the urge to sigh. “Twenty-seven,” the farm girl in the front row says quietly, and I nod.

“Yep. Twenty-seven years. And why am I telling you all this? Partly because I’m required to by the curriculum. Mostly, though, it’s so those of you who think you can coast by once you graduate realize that you can’t. Not for about twenty-three more years, at least. A mage who is not showing progress toward achieving mastery is not welcome to live in the City of Knowledge. If the master you’re apprenticed to isn’t satisfied with your work, they will request a peer review. A panel of three other masters will be appointed, and if they find you aren’t sufficiently invested in your studies, you’ll be asked to leave. If you remain at any level beyond a time that is considered acceptable, a panel will be appointed, and you’ll be required to prove that you’re making sufficient effort. If you cannot do so, you’ll be asked to leave.”

All eyes are on me now, and several students who previously looked bored now seem somewhat panicked. Good. I’m somewhat gratified to see the spark of determination in the eyes of Mr. Baby Merchant, though. Either I got through to him, or he’s planning to murder me.

Interesting, either way.

“The only people who get to live on Easy Street in the City of Knowledge are the masters, and that’s because once you’ve studied and fought for twenty-seven years or more to get to that level, you don’t want to take it easy. You want to learn more . But don’t worry,” I add, “if you don’t want to devote the first half of your life—and probably the rest of it—to the art of magic, all you have to do is pass your first-year exams. Then you can go back to farming or trading or scheming to stab your older siblings in the back. Believe me, that would be a lot easier.” As my uncle can attest. Though, to be fair, he hasn’t actually tried to stab my father in the back yet, and even if he did, not many people would blame him.

I clap my hands. “Now! Before we get started, does anyone have any questions?”

The room is dead silent, and I sigh.

“Really? Nobody? You’re amongst the less-than-one percent of the population with an aptitude for magic. This is the first class of your first day ever learning how to use this aptitude. Your years here will be filled with learning, power, and danger, and you may well die before you graduate. And you don’t have any questions?”

A boy with red braids slowly raises his hand, and hope bursts inside me. “Yes?”

He whispers something so softly that even with a spell to amplify my hearing, I don’t catch it.

“I’m sorry, could you say that again—a little louder?”

He blushes and says, barely loud enough to hear, “Could I go to the bathroom?”

Fuck. My. Life.

“It’s down the hall to the left,” I tell him resignedly. “Hurry up. You don’t want to miss too much.”

He scurries out, and I eye the rest of the class. I know from past experience that some of them will shape up into something I can actually be proud to have been a part of, but right now…

“There’s a copy of the curriculum on each of your desks. Turn to page one, and let’s talk about what we’ll be learning this week and what I expect of you by the end of it.”

They reach for the neat stacks of paper—because of course none of them looked already—and a ripple of excitement runs through the room when they see that we’ll be studying fire first. I fucking hate teaching them to use fire.

“Who would like to read first?” I ask, resigned to my fate. Maybe one day, I’ll learn not to have a smart mouth.