Page 5

CHAPTER FIVE

In a completely unsurprising act of defiance, I go to the kitchens first, to give the cooks as much time as possible to prepare. I know what side my bread’s buttered on—and more importantly, who does the buttering. I also wheedle an apple to tide me over until I can get something more substantial.

Then I begin the task of advising councilors of the meeting. As I expected, there are many, many questions. I find myself frequently repeating the excuse of “need to tell others, immediate and urgent, must go,” while backing toward doorways.

But it’s safe to say that by the time I’ve told everyone who needs to be told and they’re getting themselves ready—though, come on, all they need to do is walk down to the chamber. Who cares if their robes are wrinkled?—my headache has worsened, and the infirmary seems to be a shining beacon on my horizon.

Which is why I’m horrified to stumble inside and find myself faced with Jaimin Kahwyn.

It’s like this day is doing its utter best to fuck with me.

Who is Jaimin Kahwyn? Let’s start with the facts. He’s a healer. The healer, some would say. Objectively, he’s the strongest healer alive—capable of anything short of resurrection. I’ve heard that in some alehouses, people bet whether or not he could do even that, but they’re destined to never find out. Everyone with an ounce of Talent and training knows that resurrection is a biiiiiig mistake. Zombies weren’t always just a tale to scare children with.

So… Jaimin is strong. He’s also young—only forty-ish. He’s the youngest ever healer to have achieved mastery, at the age of twenty-nine, when he cured a fucking plague. Cured. A. Whole. Ass. Plague. There are songs written about him. Like most healers, he’s fairly reclusive, and from what I’ve heard, he was offered a position on the Council of Healers but turned it down. But that’s an unconfirmed rumor.

He’s… attractive. Since I’m stating facts, I can’t leave that out. His nose is on the big side, though. But his eyes… dammit. They’re so light a brown, they’re almost golden, and his smooth, dusky skin makes them seem to glow. And people say he has a nice smile.

Not that I’ve seen it. I’ve only ever seen him in person once before… well, twice, but I was unconscious the first time. And mostly dead. It was my third year at the academy, and I’d been drinking some kind of spirits the guards smuggled in for me. I still don’t know what it was, exactly, but I’d told them I wanted something cheap and potent, and they definitely delivered. I don’t remember all the details of my thought processes that night, but we’d been working a lot with air in class, and I felt certain I could master flight. My dormmates, who were as drunk as I was, later presented a sheet of scribblings that I’d apparently been sure proved my theory. It’s hard to say whether I was right and just lacked the necessary sobriety to make it happen, since my handwriting was completely illegible.

Long story short, I did not master flight. While a certain amount of levitation is possible for mages, flight has yet to be achieved. What I did manage to do was plummet five stories to the ground, bounce, and then tumble even farther down the side of the mountain. I suppose I’m lucky I didn’t choose one of the windows on the chasm side of the building.

The healer in the infirmary that night sent for Jaimin immediately. My list of injuries was… long. Both legs and arms broken in multiple places, six cracked ribs, collapsed lung, perforated diaphragm, shattered collarbone, skull fractures… and those are just the major ones. When I woke up the next afternoon—still achy and sore, not to mention exhausted from the healing—I was told in no uncertain terms that if Jaimin hadn’t been so close by, I wouldn’t have survived. I was lambasted and yelled at and thoroughly berated by the dean, my house master, my magic professor, Tia, and the healer on duty.

So when Jaimin walked in, I was smarting, furious with myself, and ready to lash out. I didn’t know who he was—thought perhaps he was there to visit with the infirmary healer. In fact, I was comforting myself with the idea that at least I could admire the pretty man while I licked my emotional wounds and recovered from the stress of the healing.

Then he introduced himself and tore strips off me.

Everything he said was true: I was irresponsible, reckless, and shortsighted. I did take a stupid risk. I did almost die. I did owe my life to pure chance, to the dumb luck that he had the strength and skill to save me.

But I wasn’t feeling particularly mature at that moment, so instead of apologizing and thanking him, what I said was “Suck my dick.”

To which he gave me a thoroughly disgusted look and replied, “Petulant children don’t interest me,” before walking out, thus completing my humiliation.

I haven’t seen him since, not for more than six years. I’ve been glad of that—there are a lot of moments in my life that I kind of regret, but that’s at the top of the list. So of course it makes sense that today, of all days, I’d run into him.

I’m just wondering if I can escape without being noticed when he looks up from the desk and smiles. Those gorgeous eyes are warm. “Hello. That’s a nasty headache you have.”

“Uh…” That particular ability of healers has always taken me off-guard—that they don’t need me to tell them what the problem is. Most of them do need to touch the patient to make a diagnosis, though. Only the really strong ones can do it without physical contact.

“Come on over here and I’ll get it sorted out.” He gestures me forward, and my feet obey.

Does he… Does he not remember me? I can’t imagine why else he’d still be smiling. Not that I want to be remembered as the idiot who jumped off a building because he thought he could fly, but it’s a little offensive that I’m so unmemorable.

What’s he even doing here, anyway? Infirmary duty in the Academy of Mages is waaaaaay below his pay grade.

“Just a light touch,” he’s saying. “It won’t take a moment.” His fingertips rise to rest on my temples, and the headache ebbs within literal seconds. I take a breath, only now realizing how bad the pain had truly been.

“There you go. You’re a little dehydrated, too, and you need to eat. Make sure to get plenty of rest—even a light healing can be taxing for the body.”

I mumble an agreement and wonder if I can just bolt for the door. “Thank you,” I manage. I don’t just mean for healing me today, but if he doesn’t remember me, I’m not going to explain. It’s balm enough to my conscience that I’ve said the words.

“You’re very welcome.” I didn’t notice back then how nice his voice is, probably because he was furious at the time. But it’s so mellow and inviting. He could make a living just smiling at people and saying lovely things to them in that voice.

I stand and turn toward the door, and a healer I recognize comes flying in. “Master Kahwyn, thank you! We’re so grateful for you filling in this afternoon. I don’t know what happened with the schedule, but I got here as fast as I could. I hope there weren’t any problems.”

“None at all,” he assures her smoothly, and I take advantage of the distraction to slip away.

I’m literally two steps from the door when Jaimin says, “Nice to see you again, Talon. You’re looking much better than last time.”

I freeze.

Then I peer over my shoulder. He’s smiling at me still, but this time, it’s a touch mocking. The other healer is studying the floor and trying not to smirk.

“Uh. Yeah. I… grew my hair longer.”

The staff healer snorts, and Jaimin’s smile widens. Holy gods’ turds, did I really just say that?

Since the floor is clearly not going to open up and swallow me, there’s only one thing I can do: brazen it out.

“If you ever change your mind about the offer I made back then, just let me know.” I muster a smirk of my own. “I’m all grown up now.”

His smile disappears, and I decide to take my victory and flee while I still have some shreds of tattered dignity left.

I’m not late for the meeting when I reach the door to the council chamber—I know, because I passed a few of the councilors on my way, dawdling along as though the words “immediate” and “urgent” mean something different to them. Regardless, one of the guards steps forward to block my way.

“Sorry, sir. This is a closed meeting. Councilors only.”

Briefly, I consider floating him out through one of the lovely big gallery windows and suspending him over the chasm, but he is only doing his job. It’s not his fault my day’s been a giant heaping pile of steaming turds.

Plus, I like to stay on the good side of the guards. One day in the future, there’s a chance someone will actually come up with a reason to arrest me, and I’ll need people who are willing to look the other way when Tia breaks me out of jail.

I nod, say, “Of course,” and reach out to my master. I can see him over the guard’s shoulder, not thirty feet away from me.

“Master, could you write me a note for the guards?”

“What? Talon, I’m busy with these fools who don’t want to wait for everyone to arrive.”

“Everyone like me? Standing in the doorway, barred from entry?”

His head turns my way, and he scowls. “Let him in!” he shouts. “I need him for this.”

There’s an immediate hum of protest from the other councilors, but the guard just shrugs and steps aside. “If they make me drag you out again, no hard feelings, eh?”

I wave that off. “Just don’t slam my head against anything.”

“Pfft.” He rolls his eyes. “That’s for amateurs.”

Stifling a grin, I enter the council chamber and join my master. He’s wearing a brand-new robe and has taken the time to smooth down his hair, even though it won’t stay that way. But some of the councilors are snobs, and he probably figures he’s already going to upset them enough for one day.

“This is outrageous,” Master Meele is declaring loudly. “You said a closed meeting. You cannot have your apprentice here if I cannot have mine!”

Master levels him with a look that makes lesser mages quail. “If, within ten minutes of this meeting beginning, it has not been made sufficiently clear to you why my apprentice is here and yours is not, then he will leave. Or you can invite yours to join us. I don’t care.”

Master Meele is still sputtering, apparently not happy that I might be here for even ten minutes that his apprentice won’t be, but Master Cranch, the current chair of the council, interjects smoothly. “That sounds reasonable enough. And I believe we’re all here now.” He raises his voice. “If we could all take our seats, we can begin.” On cue, the heavy doors to the chamber clang shut.

Without waiting to be instructed, I go to sit in one of the chairs to the left of the dais. The council chamber is constructed like a semicircular lecture hall. Seats rise in tiers from the floor on three sides. On the fourth side, with the doors behind it, is a low dais with a lectern. Whoever is speaking stands at the lectern. Since Master called this meeting, he’ll be speaking today. On the right side of the dais is a small table for the records master. He’s a councilor in his own right, but also responsible for recording everything that takes place in a meeting and checking old records when needed.

It’s interesting to see the way the three councils all cluster together, even though the mages, at least, have their own preferred seats. It seems like all like to be surrounded by those who are most familiar to them. The mages have opted for the middle section, directly opposite the lectern. They’re all dressed in black or beige robes to depict their mage status. Oops. Guess I forgot to stop by my room to get mine.

The healers, who have taken up residence on the left side of the room, are dressed less uniformly. Some are in robes, while others prefer trousers with many pockets sewn in and shirts with half sleeves. This is what most people see healers wearing—clothing that gives them easy movement of their arms for healing and allows them to carry medicines, bandages, and other things they might need. In the same way that I teach my students the principles behind the magic they learn—you need sustained heat to light coals—healers learn how to augment their Talent with practical medicine. Not all healers are strong enough to heal all wounds and illnesses.

On the right side of the room are the dragon riders, and they are dressed uniformly… ish. They’re all in leathers, but since dragon riders aren’t really big on conformity, those leathers are in a variety of garishly dyed colors. It’s a rainbow of dead animal skin over there.

I asked Tia once why all the leather. Turns out, it’s not just because it looks badass. Leather is durable and tough, easy to maintain, and warm. Apparently warmth is an important factor when you’re flying at high elevations. She proceeded to give me nightmares by adding that it was skintight so the wind couldn’t catch hold of it and drag a rider from their seat to plummet to their death. And, just as a bonus, dragons are meat eaters, and the riders figure they might as well make the most of it and not waste what’s left of the carcasses.

Master Cranch steps up to the lectern with my master at his side. “It’s unusual for all three councils to meet in this way, so I won’t hold things up. Master Samoine, the floor is yours.” He comes to take the seat beside me, and I try not to squirm. I wonder if he suspects it was me who stole his box of imported Baswegian chocolates seven years ago?

“Thank you all for coming,” Master says. “I understand you all had other plans for the afternoon, and certainly this is unusual in any case. But something was brought to my attention today that you all need to know about. The attendee list for this meeting was not dictated by me.”

A confused murmur.

Master takes the wooden box from the voluminous pocket of his robe and sets it on the lectern, on the tilted part where people put their notes. He uses his magic to rotate the lectern so the box is clearly visible to the whole room. And then he flips open the lid.

I see it… the moment they all realize what they’re looking at.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” Master Cranch murmurs beside me. I glance over at his face, which is as calm as always. There’s a hint of tightness around his eyes, though.

A hand rises among the mages. “I think now would be a good time for me to resign from the council,” someone calls. I can’t see who it is, but nobody laughs, and I get the feeling most of them are thinking the same thing.

“Denied,” Master Cranch says placidly. “Master Samoine, please continue.”

“As you can all see, the life stone has… rejoined us. It was found in southern Camblin by a farmer named Wat. It influenced Wat, and others who aided him, to bring it here to me.” He raises his hand, palm out, as the whole room seems to rustle. “I don’t know why me. It didn’t seem the most important question. My apprentice was in the Great Hall when the stone was influencing the guards to let Wat enter, and he stepped in, realized what was happening, and conveyed Wat and the stone directly to me. After Wat was questioned and had departed, we discovered that the stone is capable of a rudimentary form of communication.”

“What does that mean? Rudimentary?” one of the dragon riders asks.

Master looks down at the stone. “Could I impose upon you to demonstrate?”

~Yes~

Around the chamber, some faces go pale with surprise. Others cover their mouths or gasp.

“That’s what it means. Simple questions that require simple responses. It was not easy to determine who the stone wanted at this meeting, but everyone in this room was hand-picked.” The last part is rather pointedly directed at Master Meele, but I don’t think Master need have bothered. Master Meele seems about thirty seconds away from fainting. It’s a good look for him.

“What… what do we do now?” a healer asks.

Master spreads his hands. “That’s what we’re here to determine. It is, unfortunately, too open-ended a question for the stone to respond to directly.”

“We need to decide what questions to ask,” Master Cranch suggests, but that immediately prompts a free-for-all of shouting. Good thing I got my headache healed.

I wince. No, I’m not thinking about that little encounter.

The stone, clearly not happy, blasts us all with its displeasure, and the room falls silent in shock.

“I’ve discovered,” Master says blandly, “that it has quite strong opinions and prefers things done in an orderly fashion.”

“But how can we know what questions to ask?” someone bleats pathetically. “The possibilities are endless!”

The records master clears his throat. He’s about a million years old and has a croaky, wispy kind of voice, and I swear, when he walks, you can actually hear his bones groaning. But he doesn’t suffer fools, and I’ve seen him swigging from a flask that smells of spirits more than once. There are worse ways to get old. “It seems to me,” he gasp-wheezes, “that we have a document designed for this very occasion.”

Awareness smacks me over the head. I should have remembered that earlier. I even thought that I should have paid more attention in classes about the prophecies.

“We do?” someone calls, and I immediately feel a lot better. I’m just a level-2 mage. These people are councilors . They have no excuse.

“The Prophecy of the Stone,” the records master intones, then coughs. I try not to smirk at the number of embarrassed faces in the room.

“An excellent point.” Master Samoine turns to the stone. “Should we consult the prophecies to guide us in the next steps?”

~Yes~