Wartorn: Resurrection

A sneer pulled at Merse's lip. 'It is, young lady. We're all taking risks. Don't you know what's at stake?'

'I do,' Praulth pronounced somewhat icily.

'Then why the hesitating? Let's go. We can be back to Petgrad by the middle of tomorrow.'

It still felt overwhelming. Leave the University? She had never considered such a course, not even as an eventuality, after her primary studies were through. She had meant to stay on here as ... as ...

Did she still have academic aspirations? Did she imagine she would one day inherit Honnis's post as head of the war studies council? That seemed as unreal now as leaving.

'Why can't Cultat send one of those—those Far Speak magicians?' She heard the slight quiver in her

voice. She was delaying. 'It could be as it was with Master Honnis.'

Before he passed into final unconsciousness, Master Honnis had used that remarkable form of magical communication to report—rather ghoulishly—his imminent demise to his wizardry contact in Petgrad. Praulth had sat alongside the cot and watched, amazed by the proceedings.

Merse was shaking his head. 'You'll be safer in Petgrad.'

'Safer?' Xink asked.

Merse didn't look his way but responded anyway. 'The Felk are on the verge of invading the southern half of the Isthmus. They didn't have much trouble capturing the north part. If they come raging this way, do you think this—what do you call it?—campus will stand? Petgrad is the most powerful free city. We've got defenses. If the Felk win the Isthmus in the end, I promise you, we'll be the last to fall.'

Praulth felt fear's cold fingers under her flesh. But she felt something more. Excitement. Perhaps even relief that this war wasn't going to pass her by after all.

She stood.

'Xink, did you wish to accompany me,' she asked, 'or remain behind?' She heard nothing in her voice to indicate which she preferred. He still had a career in academics ahead here at the University, under Mistress Cestrello.

Xink looked back at her with his gold-flecked blue eyes.

PRAULTH LOOKED DOWN at the marker in the tall grass. It was just a temporary one, a plank of wood jammed upright into the ground. Honnis's name was inscribed with a few crude slashes. Here a grander, more thoughtful stone testimonial would stand one day.

Jumper-pine was the variety of timber; the fact summoned itself from her memories of Dral Blidst, the lumber town of her childhood.

She was uncertain whether her mentor would prefer anything more than this simple hunk of wood. Honnis had practiced irascibility as if it were a faith. He hated false sentimentality. If he could be here, alive, he would probably spit scorn at the idea of a monument to his life. He would slap away the tears of mourners. He would do these things without a thought for anyone's feelings.

Praulth missed him.

The marker had been put down in the overgrown foliage that ringed the faculty housing at the center of campus. The trees here were in the grip of autumn, sobbing away their brittle leaves. It was a bathetic setting for Master Honnis's grave, more so since the circular window of his quarters was visible from here, high above, the pebbled glass throwing back the midday's cloud-muted light.

'Idlers,' Merse was grumbling a few steps behind her.

Those quarters had been emptied. Honnis's belongings were like most personal effects—junk to the eye that didn't know how and where they fit into the convolutions of a life. Honnis had lived an enormous span of years. He had little in the way of belongings. What he'd been rich in was paper. Parchments. Scrolls. Documents, treatises, scholarly texts that ranged the length of the Isthmus. It was an immensely valuable private collection, and he had bequeathed all of it to the University's Archive.

'Layabouts,' Merse continued.

Praulth turned, seeing that he wasn't referring to her and Xink. Instead, Merse's hard gaze was toward the students that walked the campus paths, a veritable army of robed figures going to and from their various studies.

That, of course, was the essence of Merse's objections. 'You think they should all be going to war, don't you?' Praulth said. She and Xink were both wearing traveling clothes. It felt strange being without her robe.

Merse had only grudgingly agreed to halt here. His horse was waiting with hers at the edge of campus. They would have to stop at the stables to procure another mount for Xink.

'Young bodies,' he said. 'Strong hearts. They could learn to carry swords in their hands as well as they carry dusty words in their heads. It's a waste.'

Xink made to step forward once more, his earlier lesson perhaps already forgotten. But a small wave of Praulth's hand—what power she wielded over him—stopped his move. She looked levelly at Merse's

coarse face. A smile that had nothing to do with happiness tugged at her lips. There were emotions available to her now that she had never had use for before. Disdain. Self-righteousness. She had earned them.

'The only way to fight a war is to hack bodies then?' She tried, with some success, to duplicate Merse's sneer from earlier.

'You've already got a witty rejoinder picked out,' Merse said flatly, 'or else you wouldn't poke at the subject.'

Verbal sparring, only a lune ago, would have been unthinkable for her. Now she struck back. 'I would guess you're a fast man, Merse. Fast on a horse. That's why they sent you here. If I asked you why you weren't off joining up with Cultat's alliance, you would tell me you'd had no choice in the matter. You serve the war the best you can. Well, I serve—'

Her brows, beneath her bland, brown hair, drew together.

While she spoke, Merse had removed an old scratched bracelet from his coat, gripping it tightly in one hand. He murmured words she couldn't make out.

When his face cleared, he said tonelessly, 'Sorry. I missed most of that. You'll have to repeat it for me someday. Shall we go now?'

Xink didn't understand; she did. She had seen Master Honnis work the spell on his deathbed. She stared at Merse.

'I just told Petgrad we're on our way,' he said.

'You're a wizard,' Praulth breathed.

'As much as we have in the way of wizards here in the south. There's a house in Petgrad, a particular noble blood-line. A large family. The premiers have kept us, down through the years. Supported us. Made sure we kept in practice. Just in case there was need for our kind one day.'

'You're from a noble house?' Xink intruded.

To Merse, he was now invisible and mute. 'We can work the Far Speak,' the Petgradite said. 'Not much else. But we're the ones who have been scouting this war from the start.'

'Your... family has been—' Once more she didn't finish. Honnis had received reports from the field of the Felk advancement, faster than any news could travel by messenger.

'See,' Merse said, 'Cultat's not the only one who's got family at risk. I've got cousins, brothers, sisters ... sons, and daughters.'

His tone had softened finally. There was feeling in his weathered face. Praulth nodded solemnly. Then she spoke a goodbye to Honnis—aloud, the words tight and emotional in her throat, disregarding what her mentor might think of such a display—and they went to collect the horses.

'Do you know how the premier's plans are progressing?' she asked moments later, as she faced the challenge of climbing into a saddle for the first time in years. 'Is he anywhere near assembling his alliance?'

Merse vaulted onto his mount, as if clambering onto a comfortable chair. 'He finally secured the people's mandate and approval of the Noble Ministry to fully activate Petgrad's army.'

Praulth was surprised. 'I would have thought Petgrad's military would already be mobilized. What about the rest?'

'The first missions to the neighboring cities have come back successful. Seems people aren't as stupid or