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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

BOOK: A Scholar of Magics
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Porteous looked inquiringly at Stewart. “For knowledge? For understanding? To learn and work and sing? Will that do as an answer?”
Stewart considered. “It's a bit vague.”
“It's honest.” Fell moved toward Porteous and Stewart. “There's this, as well.” In his outstretched hand he held a playing card, the three of hearts. “When the wards were mended, I returned to the rooms I share with Lambert. He showed me this and asked if I knew what it was. Where did you find it, Samuel?”
“In the card tray.” Lambert was startled by the scrutiny he was getting from Porteous and Stewart. To Fell, he said, “You told me some undergraduate must have left it as a joke.”
Porteous frowned. “It's a perfectly ordinary playing card.”
“Yes. But it's the three of hearts,” said Fell.
Stewart stared at Fell. “You wouldn't by any chance be able to prove this?”
Fell looked rueful. “If I had thought to fabricate anything, I would have come up with something a bit more convincing than this, I assure you. There's nothing out of the ordinary about this card. But it is the three of hearts.”
“Upton's card,” said Porteous.
“What does that mean?” Lambert asked, frowning.
“In the grand scheme of things, absolutely nothing,” said Fell. “I could have planted it myself. But I haven't been able to find anyone who knows anything about how the card came to be in my tray. And Upton used a three of hearts as his badge.”
“Upton has been dead for forty years,” said Lambert.
“That's why we are a bit nonplussed,” said Stewart. To Porteous, he added, “I accept the young man's answer if you do. Administer the oath.”
Porteous brought forth a book. “Do you, Samuel Lambert—” As he opened the book, a playing card fell from between its pages and landed on the floor facedown. Porteous paused, staring.
“If I pick that up,” said Fell thoughtfully, “will you promise not to suspect me of fabricating this one too?”
Stewart bent down and took up the card. It was the three of hearts. He showed it to Porteous. “Well?”
“That settles it.” Porteous cleared his throat and resumed. “Do you, Samuel Lambert, swear to protect Glasscastle and to defend the university from all dangers and dishonors?”
“I do,” said Lambert. What was in the words to make his heart beat faster?
“Do you swear to devote yourself to the studies that Glasscastle imposes, and to fulfill the duties Glasscastle demands?”
“I do.”
“Do you undertake to be faithful and to bear true allegiance to Glasscastle and to observe the statutes of the university?”
“I do.”
Porteous nodded to Fell. Fell handed Porteous the book he'd had under his arm, then shook the folds out of the undergraduate's gown he carried. With a gracious nod, Porteous presented Lambert with the book.
“
‘Scito te in Matriculam Universitatis hodie relatum esse, sub hac conditione, nempe ut omnia Statua hoc libro comprehensa
pro virili observes
.'” In his most stentorian tones, Porteous read from the book he held.
Lambert took the book, risked a glance at the spine, which read
Statutes of Glasscastle University
, and then returned his full attention to Porteous in time to meet Porteous's most penetrating stare.
“I asked you if you promise to observe the statutes of Glasscastle University to the best of your ability?” asked Porteous.
Lambert tightened his grip on book and cup. “I do.”
Porteous reached out and held his open hand, palm down, six inches above Lambert's candle. Lambert caught his breath as the black twig of the candle wick blossomed into flame.
“Welcome to Glasscastle,” Porteous said to Lambert, all his joviality back in place.
“Welcome to Glasscastle,” said Stewart. “As Provost, I welcome you to Wearyall College. We have work for you here, Mr. Lambert, plenty of hard work.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lambert. He nodded awkwardly to Porteous. “Thank you, sir.”
“Congratulations,” said Fell, holding out the undergraduate's gown. Lambert had both hands full, but with Fell's help and a lot of concentration, he managed to shrug his arms into its loose sleeves without dropping either the burning candle or the university statutes, and without setting anything on fire. “Welcome to Glasscastle.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lambert, half strangled by emotion.
“Don't thank me,” said Fell. “Thank Upton.”
 
 
W
hen Lambert emerged from the chapel of Wearyall College with Fell, Porteous, and Stewart, he found Jane waiting for him. Her brother, Robert, was along as her escort. There was a soft breeze, just enough to rustle in the trees overhead and to lift the edges of the gossamer fine scarf Jane wore around her shoulders.
“You did it,” said Jane. “You are one of the students here. You belong to Glasscastle now.”
Stewart clapped Lambert on the shoulder as he moved past to join Porteous in conversation with Robert. “You belong to Wearyall now, for three years.”
Lambert smiled and called after him, “For three years, with luck.”
Fell paused on his way by Lambert just as Lambert looked down at the candle in his hand, wondering what to do with it.
“Don't put it out,” Fell told him. “Bad luck. Just let it burn. The longer it lasts, the better the omen for your studies here.”
Fell walked past the little group of Brailsford, Porteous, and Stewart, headed in the direction of the Winterset Archives. That left Lambert in the shelter of the college chapel porch, face-to-face with Jane. He held out the copy of the university statutes for Jane's inspection. “I have my work cut out for me, that's for sure.”
“What a lot of rules to follow. Imagine Amy reading all of them.” Jane glanced through the pages. “I see you won't be allowed to bring a rapier and dagger to your tutorials. That will be a sacrifice. Particularly if you have Porteous as a tutor.” She closed the book and handed it back.
“I still can't believe it.” Lambert gazed from the book to the candle in wonder. “I'm a student of Glasscastle.”
“And not just for three years, either. For the rest of your life. No matter what happens, Glasscastle is going to change you.” Jane looked sad. “It's a pity. I quite like the way you are now.”
Lambert tucked the statutes under his arm and thought it over. “Maybe you're right. Maybe I can't study magic without changing a little bit. Maybe you can't study anything without changing a bit. Maybe everyone changes—but when they do, it's mostly to get more like themselves. So just think. In three years, you'll be even more like Jane Brailsford than you are now.”
Jane gave way to quiet laughter. “Don't say that to Robert and Amy. They wouldn't find it a pleasant prospect.”
“I do.” Lambert let the words rest between them for a long moment. When Jane said nothing, he went on. “It's not as if I'm going to start smoking cheroots, you knows, or carrying on about how Glasscastle is always right.”
Jane widened her eyes. “But Glasscastle is always right.”
“You don't believe that and neither do I. Just out of curiosity, is Greenlaw always right?”
Jane's air of simple innocence altered slightly, just enough to make her look even more simple. “Well, of course it is.”
“Really? What if Glasscastle and Greenlaw disagree? Who is right then?”
“Both,” said Jane promptly, all show of simple-mindedness abandoned.
Lambert frowned. “That requires mental gymnastics that I'm not equipped for.”
“Give yourself a year at Glasscastle. You'll be surprised,” Jane advised.
“It's different though, isn't it? Greenlaw magic? Even the little I saw of it—your illusion, for example. It's not like Glasscastle magic, all organized and harmonized. It's more personal.”
“More individual, perhaps,” Jane conceded. “I don't have—I can never have firsthand knowledge of how true Glasscastle magic works, so I can't be sure how it compares. But Greenlaw magic is highly individual.”
“So Glasscastle magic is more powerful?” asked Lambert. “It must be, mustn't it? Since more people are involved in each spell?”
“If you like to think so. That would probably be a useful opinion to take with you to Glasscastle. But be careful with it when you go out into the world. Don't trust it completely. It's only an opinion, after all.”
“You're telling me Greenlaw magic is more powerful than Glasscastle?”
“It's only my opinion,” Jane said, apologetically. “Rest assured, even I don't trust it completely.”
Lambert looked into Jane's remarkably fine eyes for a long moment. Out of nowhere, he heard himself asking, “If I write to you at Greenlaw, will they deliver my letters?”
Jane's surprise was obvious. “Of course. Why shouldn't they?”
“If Greenlaw is anything like Glasscastle, they guard themselves from outsiders.”
“They do guard themselves from outsiders, but don't take
the parallel to extremes. No one sees a need to interfere with mail delivery.”
“If I write to you, will you write back?”
Jane let that question go unanswered, studying Lambert as closely as if she meant to memorize him. “Write to me and see,” she said finally.
“I'll write to you. Promise you'll write back.”
Jane looked nettled. “You aren't the only one with duties and responsibilities, you know. I'll be working hard too. You have to write me a letter worth answering. If it's full of cheroots and complaints about the food, forget it.”
“I will write you a real letter, I promise. Now promise me you'll answer.”
“Oh, you're going to be persistent, are you?”
Lambert nodded.
Jane took a step closer and touched Lambert's forehead, the slightest brush of gloved fingers over the spot where the wasp had stung him. “That looks much better.”
“You'd never know it happened,” Lambert agreed. “It was the deuce of a nuisance at the time, but you can't use it to distract me now. Promise you'll write to me.”
Jane's eyes held his, clear and grave. “I promise nothing.”
She was so close to him, closer than they'd been over the maps and the ivory spindle on the way to Ludlow. Lambert bent his head a little, just to see her that much more closely. His mouth was dry as he murmured, “I'll promise, then. I'm going to be persistent.”
Jane smiled at him. She touched him again, just a moth's brush of fingertips at the corner of his mouth, but said nothing.
Lambert could muster no more than a whisper.
“Jane.”
Jane whispered back, and her tone held a world of tenderness that lifted his heart.
“Lambert.”
“
Jane
!” Robert Brailsford stood in the path, rigid with disapproval. Lambert and Jane sprang apart as if electrified. The university statutes slipped and landed with a substantial thump on the chapel doorstep. “What are you doing?”
Behind Robert, Porteous and Stewart withdrew tactfully and set off in the general direction of dinner.
“While we were motoring to Ludlow to rescue you,” said Jane, utterly composed, “Mr. Lambert was stung by a wasp. I wanted to assure myself he was healing properly.”
Lambert retrieved the book of statutes and clamped it securely under his elbow. He drew himself up to his full height, squared his shoulders, and met Robert's eyes. “I hoped to persuade Miss Brailsford to correspond with me while she is at Greenlaw.”
Robert regarded him gravely. “Indeed.”
“Robin.” Jane's tone was crisp and cautionary.
“Jane.” Robert was just as crisp. “We don't wish Mr. Lambert to be late for his dinner, do we? In any event, Amy will be expecting us for our own dinner.”
“We certainly don't want to be late for that,” Jane said dryly.
“I certainly don't,” Robert replied. “Congratulations on your matriculation, Mr. Lambert. Come along, Jane.”
Jane hesitated a moment, then followed her brother as Lambert called a farewell after them. Lambert tucked the university statutes more firmly under his arm. With his free hand, he sheltered his candle for the careful walk back to
Holythorn. Despite the soft breeze, he meant to keep the flame safe. He planned on it burning for a long time.
 
I
t was early morning in late September, on the first day of Michaelmas term at Glasscastle. As returning students greeted one another throughout the halls of Wearyall, St. Joseph's, and Holythorn, boisterous amusement and waggish backchat were the order of the day. In the garret room allotted him as a first-term student, Lambert stood on a chair in an effort to peer out the window and get his bearings.

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