Imager

“Before you go, Grandmama would like to see us alone-just over there at the small table on the east side, where we sat earlier.”

I hadn’t even noticed that her grandmother had left the main table.

We walked over.

“Just sit there, young man. You, too, Seliora.” Her voice was firm, without the slightest trace of the age in her face and frame. Even if she hadn’t been Seliora’s grandmother, I would have obeyed.

She looked at me, except that it was more as though she looked into me, through me, and beyond me-all and the same time. So, if with less intensity, did Seliora. Abruptly, the older woman shuddered, then took a long deep breath.

I looked to Seliora. She was pale.

Diestra looked to her granddaughter.

Seliora nodded.

“What is it?” I finally asked.

“It is better that we do not say much,” Diestra spoke quietly, but firmly “Has Seliora explained why?”

“Yes. If I understand correctly, I face danger, or dangers, and if you try to explain, the odds are much higher that I will face even greater dangers.”

“That is so. The Collegium is not your enemy, but neither is it your friend.”

“I think I already understand that. The Collegium acts on behalf of Solidar and of all imagers, not necessarily on my behalf.”

The two nodded again.

“Make no enemies that you do not have to make, but make enemies rather than show weakness.” Diestra smiled sadly. “That is the finest of lines to draw and the narrowest of paths to walk.”

I understood that as well.

“Most important, always take care for your safety, no matter who or what presses you toward haste.”

What that meant, I thought, was to hold shields anywhere outside a familiar dwelling or the Collegium.

There wasn’t much to say after that, since neither Seliora nor her grandmama would have said more. So, after I offered my thanks to her parents, Seliora and I walked down the side staircase alone.

At the bottom, before stepping out into the main level foyer, she turned and threw her arms around me, holding me firmly and murmuring, “I do love you. Don’t ever forget it. No matter what the temptations.” Then, before I could question or protest, her lips found mine.

How long we clung to each other I wasn’t certain, but I finally asked, “Next Samedi . . . for dinner? Without family?”

That brought a sad smile. “It might be best if we asked Odelia and Kolasyn to come with us. We could come back here later and talk on the east terrace.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” Not ideal, but better than not seeing her.

“Odelia would like it, and Grandmama would approve.”

After another long kiss, we left the landing and crossed the foyer to the front door.

“Good night.” I paused. “Fifth glass on Samedi.”

“Fifth glass.” She walked down to the street level door with me, then unbolted it.

“You stay here.”

She smiled and brushed my lips with hers, then stepped back and opened the door.

Of course, there was no hack nearby, and it took me almost a quarter glass, with Seliora watching, for me to hail one.

Just as he pulled up, almost at the same moment as I heard a single crack, a blow struck my shields, spinning me around and almost knocking me off my feet. As I straightened a second struck my shields, but braced as I was, I barely flinched.

I turned quickly, regaining my balance and glancing around. I thought I heard distant hurried steps fading away. In the darkness beyond the circles of light cast by the oil lamps of NordEste Design, I could see no sign of anyone. Neither moon was out, since Artiema had set earlier, and Erion had not risen. In that dimness, I didn’t expect to discover the shooter, but felt I should look. I glanced back up the steps to where Seliora still held the door ajar.

“I’m all right,” I called.

Then I walked to the hack. “I was a bit clumsy there. The Bridge of Hopes, if you will.”

The driver’s mouth opened, then shut. Finally, he said, “The Bridge of Hopes. Yes, sir.”

At that, I climbed into the hack, still holding my shields and making certain that Seliora had closed the door.

Why had the assassin waited to shoot? And what had he used?

The only explanation I could come up with was that he wanted a witness of some sort. Either that or he’d had trouble with his weapon, and that didn’t seem all that likely.

I didn’t let down my shields until I was back in my quarters with the lock and bolt secured. I hoped I’d be able to sleep.

60

Acknowledging needs does not require disavowing

them.

I woke up early on Solayi and immediately wrote a quick note to Seliora, reassuring her that I was unharmed and fine. Then I wrote a letter of thanks to her parents, even though I’d be able to post neither until Lundi. Almost none of the seconds and thirds were at breakfast, and I ate quickly and alone, then made my way to the library-in the building adjacent to the dining hall. I’d been there only a handful of times, basically to find out things for my essays for either Master Jhulian or Master Dichartyn.

The front foyer was dark, unlit, but the door was unlocked. That bothered me for a moment. Then I laughed. There wasn’t any point in locking it, not in the middle of the Collegium. It would be difficult for an outsider to steal the volumes, and any insider who did risked so much that even the densest young imager would think twice.

In the dimness, it took me close to half a glass to find the D’Shendael book-On Art and Society. I could have lit the lamps, but since I didn’t know where to look, and the library wasn’t that dark, I would have spent even more time lighting than looking, and then I’d have had to snuff them all. I glanced at the title page and the dedication. It was merely to “The nameless artist who has made us who we are.”

High Holder or not, I felt sorry for her.

I took the book with me, but I remembered to write it down on the check-out list before I carried it back to my quarters and began to read. I leafed through the pages, skipping over them. Still, I found myself caught by an occasional sentence or phrase.

Not only does the value of art to a society indicate that society’s type and degree of civilization, but so also do the uses of art which are valued and those which are not, and the placement of each in the daily functions of that society . . .

The finest of lines separates the most inspiring and beautiful of art from that which is self-indulgent and decadent. . .

All art is political. Thus, an artist may support a society, oppose it, or stand outside it. Those who support are naive or sycophantic; those who oppose are fools; and those who stand outside are hated by all. . .