Owlknight

for the first time as Darian wavered. “Look now, do you bother with special shields anymore when you use Oversight? Or gather low-level energy?”

“Well, no . . .” Darian took himself in hand without any further prodding. Firesong was right; by now, everything he’d learned was as familiar to him as the act of speaking or reading. Drawing on that confidence he’d had this afternoon, he closed his eyes, invoked Mage-Sight, and reached for the nearest ley-line, then opened himself. As thirsty earth drank in rain, his power-depleted self soaked in the raw strength of the line, and when he opened his eyes and released it again, he felt as good as he had when he’d awakened this morning.

Firesong gave him a lopsided grin. “Next time, don’t wait to be reminded. I won’t always be around, you know.” He stood up, and Darian finally noticed that he’d changed his clothing from this afternoon. Now he wore blue and green, a loose-sleeved, body-hugging tunic with a high, embroidered collar, and skin-tight trews with matching soft boots. And in one hand he carried one of his many masks, a delicate thing of green scales and wispy blue plumes, that dangled loosely in his long fingers.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked, for Firesong seldom donned a mask unless he planned to leave the shelter of his ekele. He didn’t wear his masks to spare himself - he did it to spare others the sight of the burn scars that pockmarked his face from scalp to chin, but for a strip across his eyes where his equally burned forearm had saved his vision. But there was also the very real possibility that he had another reason as well; if there was one thing that Firesong loved to cultivate, it was an aura of mystery, and the wearing of his masks was an integral part of that mystery.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Firesong replied. “I’m taking you to your party.” He grinned again. “You don’t for a moment think we’d pass up such a fine excuse to have at least a little celebration, do you? It wouldn’t be Tayledras!”

Firesong was inordinately proud of his pupil, though he wasn’t about to let Darian know that. At least, he didn’t want Darian to know how proud he was. One of the reasons he’d been contemplating giving up taking on pupils was because the last couple had, for one reason or another, never quite come up to his expectations of them. They were not bad people at all, nor stupid, just . . . less than optimal. Perhaps part of that had been a failure to mesh their personalities, or that some of his pupils had been as interested in him as they had been in learning what he taught. Part of that, of course, might just have been that they were discouraged; it would be a very long time before anyone was able to casually work the kind of large-scale magics that had been possible before the Mage-Storms disrupted everything. His pupils would be very old before they had power available to them to duplicate Firesong’s own feats as a young and headstrong Master. It was likely that it would take another generation before there was the abundant power on hand to duplicate the lesser feats of an Adept. Gating was out of the question for at least a hundred years - safe and reliable Gating, anyway. It was no wonder they saw no reason to acquire proficiency in skills it was unlikely they would ever be able to use.

But Darian had a touch as sure and skilled as a fine craftsman, and he never left loose ends, or a job unfinished. Firesong was not yet certain he would reach Adept status, but as careful a worker as he was, given the current state of things and barring disaster, he would become one of the best mages of this generation. Darian was willing to follow brusque or peremptory instruction without thinking of Firesong as a tyrant; he had confidence that when he had done what he was told, it would be explained to him.

Always provided, of course, that nothing happened that interfered with his continued learning.

So Firesong decided that it was time to do a little delicate prodding. Not meddling - more on the order of information gathering. He never called his meddling by that unflattering name. Unsolicited guidance, discreet help, a “nudge,” but never meddling.

“So, how do you think Keisha will feel about this?” he asked, as he walked beside his protege, past the outer door of Silverfox’s workrooms and out into the cool half-light of the Vale at night. It wasn’t dark beneath the trees; lanterns tended by the hertasi and set along the path at intervals saw to that. They tried to replicate the blue of twilight, just after the sun has set and the sky to the west is luminous with afterglow, and Firesong thought that they succeeded very well.

“She’ll be pretty pleased, I think,” Darian replied. “She’ll probably pretend to be annoyed that I don’t have to wear uniforms, though. She’s still awfully self-conscious about being in Greens.”

“Mmm.” Firesong made a noncommittal sound. “She did make rank before you did, though. There was an imbalance.”

“That’s probably why she’ll be pleased; she’s not very comfortable with being at a higher rank than people around her.” Darian sounded as if he found that difficult to understand, but then, Darian was, beyond any doubt, a natural leader himself. Which means he doesn’t yet really understand Keisha’s motivations. That could be a point of potential conflict, especially if she is put into a position where she has to make a leader’s decisions.

Firesong continued to probe, interspersing his personal questions with those of a much more casual nature, and got the distinct impression that Darian was having some difficulty with the young Healer. It wasn’t enough to break their pairing - yet - but any time that conflict didn’t get resolved in one way or another, there was always the potential for it to happen. An unhappy Master Mage was a potentially reckless or careless one, and there was a long Hawkbrother tradition of taking good care of compatriot mages. More than that was the fact that Firesong genuinely liked young Darian on a friendly basis, and he did not want to see him troubled.

While he continued to exchange banter with his student, half of Firesong’s mind was elsewhere, pondering what, if anything, could be done. Goddess help me, I’ve turned into an inveterate matchmaker, he thought with a mingling of amusement and dismay. If I don’t watch my step, I’m going to have anxious fathers coming to me yet. Well, I have before, actually, but daughters weren’t involved. . . . Nevertheless -

I’ll ask Silverfox to look into the matter and have a word with one or both of them,