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CHAPTER TWO

By the time I send the class off to the mess hall for lunch, and then their afternoon classes—Meditation, Continental History and Politics, and Life Skills—I’m just about ready to set them on fire myself.

I hate teaching.

Hate it with a passion and loathing that mere words cannot describe.

And I hate baby mages—untrained, sometimes unwilling, always clumsy. Some of them are barely capable of thinking, much less understanding the vast concepts behind magic use. Was I ever that way? Did my professors despair of me as I despair right now?

I snort as I go in search of my sister. Of course they did—I know because they told me so. Usually at the top of their lungs and using very creative language. I was not popular with my teachers, and after five years of being stuck with first-year students, I sympathize. I marvel that none of them pushed me over a cliff or accidentally smothered me when they had the chance. I even wondered, once, if the reason some students die before graduation isn’t because they lose control of their magic, but rather that their professors lost control of their homicidal urges.

I dismissed that idea quickly. As teachers, we’re all judged on how well our students do. Death is pretty much the biggest failure of them all. I’ve started this year with forty-one students, and damned if I won’t have forty-one at the end.

Crossing the great lawn toward the dragon riders’ barracks, I tip my head back and enjoy the warm sunlight on my face. The elevation of the City of Knowledge means it’s cool here, if not downright cold, for most of the year, but we do get some lovely days in summer and early autumn. And it’s a wonderful incentive for the students to learn basic magic to keep themselves warm.

Even if it does lead to many fires. Many, many fires. At least the city’s stone and doesn’t burn down that easily.

“Talon!”

I hear the shout even as I feel the tug in my mind, and lower my head to squint at the person approaching. I’d recognize her anywhere, even without the help of my magic. We’ve been bonded from the womb.

I stop walking and wait for my twin to reach me. I’m a lazy bastard, and she’s required to keep fit for her job. Why take the extra steps when I don’t have to?

“It’s such a nice day,” she says as she gets closer, and I see she’s carrying a bag. “Let’s have lunch out here.” Without waiting for me to agree, she drops to sit cross-legged on the grass.

“Here?” Outside? “But there’s a perfectly good mess in the riders’ barracks.” With tables and chairs and a better head cook than the one at the academy. Technically, since I’m not a student and have quarters of my own, I don’t have to eat in the academy cafeteria. But the alternative is cooking for myself—which the healers have banned me from doing—or going into the city to eat. And I’m not made of money.

Tavia—Tia—gives me a knowing look. “I brought the food from the mess. When I told Chelica I was meeting you for lunch, she put your favorite dessert in. Which, by the way, is not on the menu today. Are you sure you’re not bribing her?”

Chelica is the wonderful, talented head cook at the riders’ mess. “Of course I’m not bribing her.” Much. “I just won her over with my irresistible charm.” And a charmed cup that doesn’t allow her tea to get cold, no matter how many times she’s called away from it. It took me ages to get that spell right.

Reluctantly, I join Tia on the grass. Sure, the food will be good, but we’re still eating outside. Like savages.

Tia laughs as she hands over the food bag for me to unpack and lies back in the grass. “Your irresistible charm. Sure. Irresistible like the plague.”

My sister loves me so much. We have a special twin bond.

I dig out a fat roll stuffed with roast boar and all the trimmings—Tia can get her own when she’s ready—and take a huge bite as I reach out through our bond for just a tiny, harmless bit of revenge.

Tia’s hand comes up to scratch the side of her nose. Then switches to scratch the other side. To give her credit, even as she’s moving to scratch the first side again, her head turns toward me. “I’m not afraid to tell Leicht to burn you to ashes,” she threatens.

Sighing, I let the itch lapse. Even after all these years, even knowing he’d never hurt me due to my bond with Tia, her dragon still intimidates me. To be fair, it’s not like he’s gone out of his way to be nice to me or anything. There have been a few times he’s puffed smoke in my direction that had some embers in it. And he’s very fond of baring his teeth at me.

Some of it miiiiiiiight be my fault. There was one time, way back right after Tia bonded him, when I’d had a little too much to drink and suggested that there’s nothing a dragon can do that a mage can’t. I didn’t know then that Leicht can hear and see everything Tia does, through their bond, unless she’s actively shielding him out. Our bond doesn’t work that way at all—it truly only exists because I’m a mage with telepathic abilities, and when we were babies, I kind of linked us.

That’s a secret, of course. It’s not supposed to be possible, and gives both of us advantages that regular mages and riders don’t have. But it’s also how we both knew when we were still children what we were going to grow up to be. I could rummage around in my twin’s head—though she came up with some pretty creative ways to kick me out, even before I taught her how to shield against it—and while I was doing that, I found the dark place there. The part of her brain that I couldn’t—can’t—touch. The part that’s Tia, but not Tia. That’s where the ability to bond with a dragon lies.

Dragon riders aren’t mages. They can’t do magic. Their strength is wholly in the way they can link with their dragons to become the ultimate war machine. Dragons are the reason we have peace on our continent. They got tired of our petty human wars, and so they… ended them. Now, anytime one of the kings or queens or councils or whatever starts to get covetous of their neighbors, the dragons show up to remind them of the consequences. By treaty, they’ll work in tandem with the City of Knowledge and the three councils—mages, healers, and riders—since we’re neutral territory, but they answer only to their own councils.

It's pretty badass, when you think of it. Even if they still scare the gods-blessed turds out of me.

Tia sits up and reaches for the bag of food as I take another bite, and I look at her face. It’s a prettier, feminine version of mine—long, with a straight nose, blue eyes, and dark brown hair. Hers is shorter than mine—because otherwise it gets loose and ends up in her face while flying. I’m too lazy to see a barber regularly, so mine’s a shaggy mop.

The other major difference is the silver scar running down the right side. It’s close enough to her hairline and ear that you can only see it at certain angles, but it’s a reminder that she’s often in dangerous situations.

“It’s so peaceful out here,” she says, and I have to concede that’s true. You’d think that other people who enjoy eating like savages would also take advantage of the sunny day and wide expanse of grass, but the truth is, most of us who live at the academy are indoorsy. The few that aren’t know that dragons occasionally like to frolic here, and nobody wants to have to abandon their picnic because a forty-foot-long scaled, fire-breathing beast wants to sun itself.

The dragon riders, who, being the opposite of mages, love to spend time outside, have several gardens and lawns on the other side of the barracks, where they can watch their dragons doing dragonish stuff in the hanging valley where they live. I’m not allowed over there, so Tia comes to me when she wants a picnic.

A fly lands on my hand and inches toward my sandwich. I shoo it off. “Peaceful. Yeah.”

My sister is lucky I love her so much.

A lot of mages, when they find out that I’m apprenticed to Master Samoine, are envious. “You’re so lucky,” they say. “He’s never taken an apprentice before. He’s so powerful and wise. Your master is on the Council of Mages!”

All of that is true, which is why it’s easy to smile and nod and burble about how grateful I am. I hardly ever tell them that he’s a tyrant taskmaster who often wakes me in the middle of the night to do some obscure bit of research, frequently tells me I can do better with my own magic practice, and laughed outright when I asked him to get me out of teaching duties.

I also love him like a father—more than I love my own, to be honest—and know he’d lay down his life for me if it came to that. He pushes me hard, and he’s a grumpy ass when he’s not being the oh-so-wise councilor, but having him take me as his apprentice was the highest of honors, and he expects me to live up to that. I expect me to live up to that. He’s training me to be the greatest master I can be, and that’s what I want.

Which is why, after a lunch consisting of great food and company, I take myself off to his rooms to see what tasks he has for me today. Yesterday, he had me use magic to dry a puddle of water—which is a basic task my first years should be able to complete when I’m done with them—but only one drop at a time . And if I went too fast, like doing two drops at once, he’d add more water to the puddle. He’s gotten this idea lately that I’m too focused on my telepathic skills and have been neglecting the finer elements of other areas of magic. He’s not completely wrong—after all, telepathy is where I have the most strength, and it’s the focus of my future mastery—but I’m not particularly enjoying these lessons.

I knock and enter without being summoned. He doesn’t always invite people in, if he’s not in the mood to be social. Before I worked that out, I would spend hours waiting in the hallway for him to return to his rooms, only to discover he’d been in there the whole time. I aspire to be like that one day.

“How are the first years?” he asks without turning from where he’s staring out the window, his white hair standing up in tufts all over his head. Until a few weeks ago, it was long. Then one day he found it annoying and hacked it off with a letter opener.

I don’t bother to wonder how he knows it’s me. He’s a master telepath—he knows exactly who’s in this part of the building right now.

“Annoying. One of them thought he’d stirred a little eddy of air and began announcing that he was going to be a great wind mage.” I join him by the window. He has the best view, out toward the dragons’ valley. Several of them are in the air today, circling lazily. The rider recruits started training this week, and the dragons who haven’t bonded yet like to keep an eye on them in the early days, see if anyone has potential.

They don’t like it if you suggest it’s creepy and stalkerish, though. I found that out the hard way.

“And did he?”

I snort. “No. The student at the next desk dropped her copy of the curriculum. What he felt was the displaced air as it fell.”

Master shudders. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you lost that one.”

I don’t bother to reply. He knows how I feel about this—losing students is a sign of a mediocre teacher, and I will not accept mediocrity in myself.

Which is why when he turns his head and smirks at me, I know I’m going to perform whatever hideous task he’s about to assign without complaint.

But then we both turn toward the door. Someone’s approaching—someone who’s a little nervous. A knock comes a second later, and Master jerks his head at me.

I go to answer it. A fourth-year student is standing there, wringing his hands—which he stops instantly when he sees me. I recognize him—he was in the second class I ever taught. I disliked him then, and from what I’ve heard, he hasn’t improved any over the years.

He has survived, though. I’ll give him that.

“What?”

“Master Eldridge wants to see you,” he blurts.

I sigh. That came faster than expected. I was sure I’d have until dinnertime, at least. “Master?” I call over my shoulder. He’s turned back to the window.

“Go.”

When I look back at the student, he’s actually sweating. “Is there a problem?” I ask him as I step out into the hall and close the door behind me.

“No! Uh. I don’t know. I’m sure there isn’t. And if there is, it’s not my fault.”

Ah. He thinks the Dean of Students summoned me because I’m in trouble, and he’s worried I’ll punish the messenger.

“You can go.” I get a lot of satisfaction from the way he practically flees.

By the time I make my way down to Master Eldridge’s office, I’ve glared at three other students and one level-1 mage. Seeing their faces go pale as they backed away made me feel a lot better about wasting my time with this. It’s why I’m almost whistling as I stroll into the anteroom.

“You took your time,” says Preet, the dean’s assistant, a level-3 mage I’ve worked with in the past and don’t find too annoying. “Or did the student dawdle coming to find you?” She smirks. We once compared tricks for scaring students, and it forged a deep level of respect between us.

I shrug. “Probably both.”

With a little huff of laughter, she opens the door to the dean’s office. “Talon Silverbright, Master Eldridge.” I walk inside, and she closes the door in my wake.

The dean looks up from his desk. “Sit, Mage Silverbright.” His gimlet gaze bores into me as I obey, lounging in one of the chairs before his desk—the left one. It’s my favorite. I’ve been called here a lot over the past nine years, so I’ve had plenty of experience to judge by. “A formal complaint has been made about you.”

“I guessed as much. It came sooner than I expected, though.”

His face doesn’t change. He’s mastered the art of the grim expression, and the neat, silky fall of his shoulder-length gray hair frames it perfectly. “I’m told you suspended a student by the ankle above the chasm and threatened to drop him.”

I cast my mind back. Did I threaten to drop him? I don’t always. But yes—right after he swore at me. “That’s correct, Master Eldridge.”

He heaves a huge, put-upon sigh. “I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t do that again. Not on the first day, at least.”

“But it’s so effective.”

“For you, perhaps. I had to waste forty minutes listening to a tirade about what a monster you are. Not to mention this meeting.” He gestures between us.

I lean forward. “About that… what if, next time, instead of us having this meeting, you just send a note to let me know there’s been a complaint? It would save us both so much effort. Not that I don’t enjoy your company,” I tack on as his brows lower.

“Talon, there are days when I could quite cheerfully strangle you.”

I nod, returning to my previous slumped posture. “I get that a lot.”

“And no, I can’t send a note. The academy rules require me to meet in person with any instructor about whom a complaint is made.”

“You know, there’s an easy solution to that.”

His smile is mean. “Nice try. I’m not removing you as an instructor.”

It’s my turn to sigh. “Haven’t I been punished enough? It’s been five years. At least let me move on to teaching one of the older classes.” They’re marginally less annoying.

To my surprise, he says, “That was my original plan, but you’ve proved too valuable with the first years. Did you know that you’re the only teacher in the history of the academy who’s never lost one?”

I blink. “The only one?” Considering how far back the academy’s history goes, that makes me a fucking legend. Dammit. Now he’s never going to let me go.

“The only one. I’ve already set people to checking if we can change the rules to keep you here once you achieve mastery.” It’s only the twinkle deep in his eye that assures me he’s not serious.

I hope.

“Maybe Master Samoine was right, and it wouldn’t be so bad if I lost one,” I mutter. That earns me a full-blown laugh. I’m so glad somebody’s amused.

“All right, then. I’ve called you in, advised you of the complaint, and heard your response. Consider this your official slap on the wrist. Now go, so I can do some work.” The dean goes back to the papers on his desk, and I stand to leave.

Halfway to the door, I turn back. “Who made the complaint?”

He lifts his head and meets my gaze. “What makes you think it wasn’t the student you dangled?”

Remembering the look on Mr. Baby Merchant’s face—I don’t use their names until they’ve earned it—I shake my head. “No. He’s either plotting my homicide or planning to excel just to spite me, but he wouldn’t have come running to whine about me.” There was too much determination there.

With a faint smile, the dean nods. “The student’s name was Lenora Gill.”

Ah. Farm girl. I guess her shattered ideals couldn’t cope with the idea of someone like me being a mage. Lucky for her, I don’t hold a grudge… well, not against my students, anyway.