Elodin’s class began strangely that day.
For one, Elodin was actually on time. This caught us unprepared as the six remaining students had taken to spending the first twenty or thirty minutes of the class gossiping, playing cards, and griping about how little we were learning. We didn’t even notice Master Namer until he was halfway down the steps of the lecture hall, clapping his hands to get our attention.
The second odd thing was that Elodin was dressed in his formal robes. I’d seen him wear them before when occasion demanded, but always grudgingly. Even during admissions interviews they were usually rumpled and unkempt.
Today he wore them as if he meant it. They looked sharp and freshly laundered. His hair wasn’t in its normal state of dishevel, either. It looked like it had been trimmed and combed.
Reaching the front of the lecture hall, he climbed onto the dais and moved to stand behind the lectern. This more than anything made everyone sit up and take notice. Elodin never used the lectern.
“Long ago,” he said without any preamble, “this was a place where people came to learn secret things. Men and women came to the University to study the shape of the world.”
Elodin looked out at us. “In this ancient University, there was no skill more sought after than naming. All else was base metal. Namers walked these streets like tiny Gods. They did terrible, wonderful things, and all others envied them.
“Only through skill in naming did students move through the ranks. An alchemist without any skill in naming was regarded as a sad thing, no more respected than a cook. Sympathy was invented here, but a sympathist without any naming might as well be a carriage driver. An artificer with no names behind his work was little more than a cobbler or a smith.
“They all came to learn the names of things,” Elodin said, his dark eyes intense, his voice resonant and stirring. “But naming cannot be taught by rule or rote. Teaching someone to be a namer is like teaching someone to fall in love. It is hopeless. It cannot be done.”
Master Namer smiled a bit then, for the first time looking like his familiar self. “Still, students tried to learn. And teachers tried to teach. And sometimes they succeeded.”
Elodin pointed. “Fela!” He motioned for her to approach. “Come.”
Fela stood, looking nervous as she climbed up to join him on the lecturer’s dais.
“You have all chosen the name you hope to learn,” Elodin said, his eyes sweeping over us. “And you have all pursued your studies with varying degrees of dedication and success.”
I fought the urge to look away shamefacedly, knowing that my efforts had been halfhearted at best.
“Where you have failed, Fela has succeeded,” Elodin said. “She has found the name of stone. . . .” He turned sideways to look at her. “How many times?”
“Eight times,” she said looking down, her hands twisting nervously in front of her.
There was a murmur of genuine awe from all of us. She had never mentioned this in our frequent griping sessions.
Elodin nodded, as if approving of our reaction. “When naming was still taught, we namers wore our prowess proudly. A student who gained mastery over a name would wear a ring as declaration of their skill.” Elodin stretched out a hand in front of Fela and opened it, revealing a river stone, smooth and dark. “And this is what Fela will do now, as proof of her ability.”
Startled, Fela looked at Elodin. Her eyes flickered back and forth between him and the stone, her face growing stricken and pale.
Elodin gave her a reassuring smile. “Come now,” he said gently. “You know in your secret heart you are capable of this. And more.”
Fela bit her lips and took hold of the stone. It seemed bigger in her hands than it had in his. She closed her eyes for a moment and drew a long, deep breath. She let it out slowly, lifted the stone, and opened her eyes so it was the first thing she would see.
Fela stared at the stone and there was a long moment’s silence. The tension in the room built until it was tight as a harp string. The air vibrated with it.
A long minute passed. Two long minutes. Three terribly long minutes.
Elodin sighed gustily, breaking the tension. “No no no,” he said, snapping his fingers near her face to get her attention. He pressed a hand over her eyes like a blindfold. “You’re looking at it. Don’t look at it.
Fela lifted the stone and opened her eyes. At the same moment Elodin gave her a sharp slap on the back of the head with the flat of his hand.
She turned to him, her expression outraged. But Elodin merely pointed at the stone she still held in her hand. “Look!” he said excitedly.
Fela’s eyes went to the stone, and she smiled as if seeing an old friend. She covered it with a hand and brought it close to her mouth. Her lips moved.
There was a sudden, sharp cracking sound, as if a speck of water had been dropped into a pan of hot grease. There followed dozens more, so sharp and quick they sounded like an old man popping his knuckles, or a storm of hailstones hitting a hard slate roof.
Fela opened her hand and a scattering of sand and gravel spilled out. With two fingers she reached into the jumble of loose stone and pulled out a ring of sheer black stone. It was round as a cup and smooth as polished glass.
Elodin laughed in triumph before sweeping Fela into an enthusiastic hug. Fela threw her arms around him wildly in return. They took several quick steps together that were half stagger, half dance.
Still grinning, Elodin held out his hand. Fela gave him the ring, and he looked it over carefully before nodding.
“Fela,” he said seriously. “I hereby promote you to the rank of Re’lar.” He held up the ring. “Your hand.”
Almost shyly, Fela held out her hand. But Elodin shook his head. “Left hand,” he said firmly. “The right means something else entirely. None of you are anywhere near ready for that.”
Fela held out her other hand, and Elodin slid the ring of stone easily onto her finger. The rest of the class broke into applause, rushing close to get a look at what she had done.
