3
23 Tarsakh, the Year of the Leaping Dolphin (1331DR) Nethjet, Thay
Marek blinked three times in rapid succession the second he made eye contact with Nesnah. Though Nesnah, at eighteen, was two years Marek’s senior, the older boy had long since come under Marek’s influence. Both still students, not even yet gifted with the tattoo focus that would soon mark them as Red Wizards, the two boys had found a bond of mutual ambition that had brought them both to the head of their class.
Nesnah didn’t give any indication that he’d seen Marek’s signal, and that was as they’d rehearsed. They both waited the count of two breaths, then Nesnah started to slowly sink to the floor.
Of the nine young apprentices in the transmutation seminar, three had already drifted to the ground. Three, including Nesnah, appeared able to continue levitating for a considerable time longer. Marek could feel himself beginning to weaken and simply would not be among the bottom half of the student mages.
They sat with their legs curled beneath them, a position Marek found increasingly uncomfortable as he continued to gain weight. He’d never been interested in athletics and had become quite accomplished at avoiding the mandatory physical training that seemed to keep the other apprentices lean but tired. Beneath him was five feet of empty air then the clean sand of the practice yard.
The master had been walking around the circle of levitating apprentices, carefully eyeing each of them, since they’d chanted the incantation in unison and all together lifted up to a uniform height. He stopped walking when he saw Nesnah begin to descend. Everyone
SI knew that Nesnah was one of the most, if not the most, |› gifted student at the academy, with a particular talent B| for transmutation. Though the purpose of that morning’s Hi session was to show to the master precisely how long each H:” student could maintain the spell, he was understandably ||tsurprised by Nesnah’s disappointing results. Pi When the rest of the class likewise began to descend p the master grew first more then less puzzled. Marek H assumed that the master was beginning to think he’d p simply miscalculated the timesurely, he must have | been thinking, more time than seemed to had gone by. | Marek tried not to shake in the air. The effort of main-i taining the spell, especially with the distraction of seeing I his plan working, was getting far too difficult. He’d wanted | to stay aloft longer than anyone else, but two of the |” apprentices were sinking too slowly, and soon Marek was | closer to the ground than they were. He could take solace, I at least, in the angry glance Nesnah shot at them both. In the end, Marek was the second to the last of the nine apprentices to feel his behind touch the sand.
Sweat beading on his forehead, Marek breathed heavily but resisted the considerable temptation to wipe his brow. The master stepped behind him and Marek grimaced when one, then another, then a third of the apprentices who’d been part of his little play looked up at the wizard with barely disguised guilt.
“How you do it, Marek Rymiit,” the master said, “is still a mystery to me.”
Marek cleared his throat but didn’t turn around. His left leg had gone to sleep and he wanted nothing more than to stretch out on the sand. “Well?” the master asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Master,” Marek replied.
“I will not waste my breath explaining the purpose of this simple exercise,” said the Red Wizard. “If you interfere with it one more time…”
Marek waited for what felt like a reasonable space of uncomfortable silence then said, “Master?”
The older man sighed so heavily Marek could feel it ruffle the hair on the top of his head.
“You are a mediocre wizard at best, boy,” the master said, “but I can see that you have other talents. Perhaps transmutation is not your field. I should think you would have better results with enchantments.”
That made Marek smile.
“Yes, Master,” he said.
Marek could feel more than one of the other boys tense and skillfully avoided meeting Nesnah’s gaze in particular.
Marek had a talent for enchantment indeed and didn’t always need the help of the Weave.
The master began to drone on again about the proper cadence of this incantation, the preferred weight of the other material component, and Marek’s legs began to hurt worse and worse. He feared that in another minute or so he’d simply have to stretch his legs, whether the master approved or not.
Marek started thinking of an excuse the Red Wizard would accept.
4
11 Flamerule, the Year of the Blazing Brand (1334 DR)
Firesteap Citadel
Pristoleph watched the lieutenant approach, knowing full well why he looked so angry. It wasn’t often that the officers deigned to mingle with the men, and they generally only came to harass or punish. Pristoleph expected a bit of both.
As the lieutenant made his way quickly and deliberately through the rows of tents, soldiers who had been lounging on the grass or on whatever makeshift seats they’d arranged for themselves stood and saluted or at least nodded as he passed. Once his back was to them, some would scowl or offer a rude gesture, but most would go back to what they were doing, unconcerned and unimpressed.
Pristoleph started out unconcerned and unimpressed.
“You will stand when you address me, soldier,” the lieutenant said.
Pristoleph smiled but didn’t move from his comfortable canvas folding chair. From the tent behind him drifted the sounds of gasps and groans, then a woman’s giggle.
“Stand, damn you,” the lieutenant said, his voice low and tight, his mouth curled in a furious grimace.
The officer wasn’t much older than Pristoleph, a lean, pampered youth with the dark, almost black hair common in Innarlith. His skin was a bit paler than usual, undoubtedly from years spent in the cloistered halls of private schools and society galas. His soft skin had never seen a moment’s battle, despite his rank.
“Is there a problem, sir?” Wenefir asked.
He’d appeared, as Wenefir usually did, as if from nowhere, stepping out from behind the tent. The lieutenant was surprised and confused, but his breeding and arrogance quickly calmed him.
“Is there a problem, soldier?” the young officer asked Wenefir. “Yes, I should say there is.” He turned his attention back to Pristoleph. “This… man. Is he a friend of yours?”
“He is,” Wenefir replied.
“Then you shall both” the lieutenant began then was interrupted by a loud groan, almost a wail, from the inside of the tent and the woman laughed instead of just giggling. “For Innarlith’s sake,” the officer pressed on, “this is a military camp not a… a… a brothel! What could you possibly be thinking, the both of you?”
The young officer made a move toward the tent, and Wenefir stepped sideways, meaning to put himself between the lieutenant and Pristoleph. Both of them stopped short and again the young lieutenant had to mask his initial shock and intimidation with the haughty arrogance demanded of his position.
A small crowd of soldiers started to gather behind the officer. Pristoleph could read in their glances and the way they whispered to each other what they were thinking, and he recognized an opportunity to put on a show that would have benefits for a long time after. The men started shifting position, growing increasingly anxious, and the young officer’s face tightened further.
“Do you feel that?” Pristoleph asked, pitching his voice in such a way that at least the first few rows of onlookers would be able to hear him.
The sounds of mumbled conversation and giggles from inside the tent came to a shushing halt.
“I’m quite sure I have no idea what you” the lieutenant started.
“Sure you do,” said Pristoleph. “A child could sense itthat moment when the air begins to charge with a feeling of imminent danger?”
