Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (21 page)

“Excellent to hear. Because that means I shall
never
again hear of you doing something as brainless as leaving a Water-deaf acolyte alone in the middle of the ocean! Should I hear of more such idiocy, you will be removed from your position here. Is that understood?!”

Jhaell finally understood what had prompted the Distinguished One’s visit. “I was merely trying to teach the mainlander today’s lesson.”

Hovathil’s green eyes opened wide. “Oh! By all means, teach. Impart. Demonstrate. Educate. Lecture. Elucidate…Pontificate if you must!” Smacking his palm on Jhaell’s desk, Hovathil hissed, “But never put the acolytes in mortal danger! Mainlander or not!”

Jhaell dropped his head, stared at the open book on his desktop, and swallowed his pride. “Understood, Distinguished One. I apologize.”

“Had the tomble not been particularly clever,” grumbled Hovathil. “He would most likely be dead now and we would have had to cancel the class.”

Admittedly, that had been Jhaell’s hope. “May I ask how he returned, sir? He has shown no aptitude for Water at all.”

“He adapted a Weave coastal mages use to aid fishermen and charmed the needleteeth to pull him to shore—without biting him. He arrived on shore a while ago, dripping wet, but none the worse for wear.”

Jhaell lifted an eyebrow, forced to acknowledge the tomble’s ingenuity. “And so he ran straight to the registry and reported me, did he?”

“Actually, no,” replied Hovathil. “Preceptor Filaeril spotted him on his way back to the dormitory and asked why he was sloshing seawater all over the halls. The tomble claimed he had tripped and fallen off the docks, but—as the mainlander is
your
student—Preceptor Filaeril suspected something else had occurred and brought him to me. The tomble refused to reveal what happened until I threatened to expel him.”

“So everything is fine, then,” said Jhaell. “The tomble is alive. No harm was done and class may continue.” He was less than thrilled with the outcome.

The already deep creases around Hovathil’s eyes turned to canyons. He growled quietly, “You would be wise to spend time thinking on what we have spoken of today, Myrr.” Turning around, he strode to the office’s open doorway where he halted, looked back, and pointed a long, bony finger at Jhaell. “The registry still disapproves of your choice in fashion.”

“I prefer crimson,” replied Jhaell evenly. It had been Syra’s favorite color. “And the bylaws allow it.”

Hovathil pressed his thin, dry, and cracked lips together and muttered, “I suppose that is the least of my concerns.” Glaring at Jhaell’s robes a moment longer, he lifted his gaze to Jhaell’s face, and said, “I will be observing your class tomorrow, Preceptor. Do you have any objections?”

Jhaell could think of quite a few. “No, sir. It would be an honor.”

Hovathil nodded once and exited the room, leaving the eight-paneled oak door open behind him, Jhaell suspected on purpose. Moving from behind the desk, Jhaell strode across the plush rug to shut it himself. As he grabbed the door’s edge, he felt a black, crackling vibration in the air. His eyes widened as panic rushed through him.

Poking his head out of the door, he ensured that Hovathil continued striding down the hall. Closing the door, he moved to the table over which Hovathil had been hovering and retrieved a bundle of ten parchments from a stack’s bottom. Taking them to his desk, he spread the blank sheets in a fan and waited.

Moments later, a long, flowing script began to appear on the fourth from the left. He pulled the sheet free and stared. The individual at the other end was writing as quickly as a snail crawled. Jhaell squeezed his eyes shut, impatient. “Write faster, blast it.”

These parchments had become invaluable in his search. A preceptor from the Academy at Hollow who possessed superior control over Strands of Void had made them for Jhaell ages ago. A unique Weave, bound to two sheets of parchment, allowed someone to write on one sheet and the letters would appear on its mate, regardless of distance between the pair. With a simple weave of Air, the parchment could be cleared and reused indefinitely. The pairs to these ten were spread across Terrene—most in the Oaken Duchies—with different Tandyr loyalists, all of whom were currently searching for some sign of the Progeny.

Jhaell slowly counted to twenty, opened his eyes, and read the now complete message with mounting anger. This parchment’s counterpart belonged to an erijul currently investigating an area around Greycliffe in the Duchy of the Red Peaks. According to the message, an official of Duke Thomas’ court had visited him, curious about why he had been asking such odd questions.

“Blasted fool,” muttered Jhaell. Clearing message with a tiny Weave of Air, he dropped the parchment on the desk and sat in his chair. He could not afford to leave this be. He needed to visit the Greycliffe personally and discover what the erijul and duchy official had discussed.

Rising from his chair, Jhaell marched around the desk and stood in the center of the crimson rug. Reaching for both the white Strands of Air and the midnight black Strands of Void, he arranged them in the correct pattern. Moments before it was complete, he shut his eyes and pictured a little alcove of spruces on the hill above Greycliffe. The sound of ripping cloth cut through the office and a small tear split the air, appearing just above the red carpet. He lifted a flap of the port and stepped through.

Nundle strode down the cool, gray granite hallway, moving through alternating strips of sun and shade created by Mu’s orb shining through the tall arched windows that lined the hall’s left side. His sandals smacking against the stone floor was the only sound within the cavernous passageway.

He had been lying atop his bed, contemplating different ways he could manage to hide for the remainder of the semester when the idea to go speak with Preceptor Myrr had popped into his head. He was determined to ask his teacher that he be allowed to either study independently for the remainder of the semester or be moved to another class. Doubting either wish would be granted, he had nonetheless hopped up, slipped on his sandals, and began wandering the maze of halls. Amazingly, he had not turned back. Yet.

He muttered, “Perhaps I’ve gone mad.”

Ahead of him, Distinguished One Hovathil exited the hallway leading to the preceptor’s office, his blue robes swishing. Nundle halted in place and nearly dove into a nearby alcove. He had no desire to speak with the saeljul again.

Luckily, the Distinguished One seemed preoccupied and did not notice Nundle. He turned left and shuffled away from the tomble, passing through the patches of sun and shade farther down the hall.

For once, Nundle rejoiced in his small stature. At three and a half feet tall, he was much shorter than most everyone in the Arcane Republic. In fact, he had come across but one soul his size while studying, an atarkas named Kemir during his semester near the Ciyriel volcano. The pair had become fast friends, finding solidarity in being two short people in a tall persons’ world. Unfortunately, their paths had not crossed again once they both finished at Veduin.

Considering todays’ events, Distinguished One Hovathil coming from the direction of Preceptor Myrr’s offices most likely meant he had visited Nundle’s teacher, something Nundle had begged the elder ijul not to do.

Nundle let out a long, weary sigh. A visit from the Distinguished One would not have improved the preceptor’s mood. Nevertheless, Nundle resumed his path down the hall. He had come this far already.

Reaching the same passages’ intersection, Nundle turned left. He had had been down this corridor only once before when he had come to introduce himself to his new teacher. He hoped today’s visit would go better than that one.

On his first day here, Nundle had knocked on the preceptor’s door. After a few moments, a voice told him to enter. Nundle had shoved the heavy wooden door, pushing it into the room, and had begun to introduce himself. He had gotten out his name when he had felt a soft, white crackling of Air. With a great gust of wind, the giant oak door had slammed in his face forcing Nundle to leap back quickly to avoid his foot being crushed in the doorjamb. The preceptor had barely glanced up from his desk.

Now, that same eight-paneled oak door waited ahead, beckoning him. He shook his head, muttering, “I am madder than a goose taking a nap in a fire.”

Suddenly, the familiar crackling and crinkling of someone using the Strands filled his chest and the air around him. While it was common to feel weaving inside the walls of the Academy, the Strands being used stunned Nundle. His eyes opened wide. “Bless the gods.”

The sparkling white of Air was clear and familiar, but the thick, throbbing, black Strands rushing through the walls, past him, and into the preceptor’s office were new. He had never before sensed them. Ever. “It can’t be.”

Nundle was astounded. The ebony Strands of Void were as clear to him as the gold of Will. He spun in place, gaping at the air in the hall, watching the inky black Strands whip past him.

Few ever showed proficiency with Void. The Academy at Hollow, where Void was taught, was the smallest and least attended of all of the schools. Often, they did not even have the requisite nine acolytes in a semester to teach a lone class there. Most students simply skipped the semester there. Nundle had considered not going, scheduling things so it was the last remaining Academy on his list.

A wide, joyous smile spread over Nundle’s lips. He, Nundle Babblebrook, was one of only a handful of mages who could touch five types of Strands. He almost giggled with excitement.

Suddenly, the Strands stopped flying past him. He sensed that the Weave—whatever its purpose—was complete. Moments later, the sensation of the Strands disappeared altogether.

Nundle looked up and down the hallway. It was empty. He was almost disappointed; he wanted to share his good fortune with someone. Not that anyone would have cared. “Well, I’m certainly going to Hollow now.”

With a renewed sense of confidence, he hurried down the remaining dozen paces to Preceptor Myrr’s door. He was about to knock when he halted, his fist hovering inches from the wood.

It was time for eveningmeal, meaning most everyone would be in the dining hall. Everyone but Preceptor Myrr. Nundle had not seen the saeljul attend a meal there yet, which meant the odds were high that the preceptor was responsible for the Strands of Void, something the saeljul had never mentioned. In fact, it would seem he had purposely concealed it. On day one of the class, Preceptor Myrr had listed his proficiency with the Strands: Water, Will, Air, and Soul.

The great oaken door stood before Nundle, taunting him. Taking a deep breath, he rapped his knuckles against the wood and waited. There was a bronze knocker affixed to the door, but he was too short to reach it.

After a long period of silence, he knocked again, harder this time. The crack of bone on wood echoed down the empty hallway.

He waited again, expecting a command to open the door. Or at least one telling him to leave. However, there was nothing but silence.

With a frown, he mumbled, “You can’t ignore me.”

He reached up, pulled the latched handle, and pushed the door open a crack. The heady scent of peppery, spicy incense drifted from within. “Preceptor Myrr, sir?”

Silence.

He pushed open the door slowly, peeking inside. The office was empty.

Confused, Nundle opened the door and stepped into the office. With all three windows shuttered, the room was darker than the hallway. A dozen candles burned unattended on tall, bronze candelabras.

Frowning, Nundle murmured, “Now that’s just reckless.”

Having read enough on Strand theory, he guessed Preceptor Myrr had crafted a port. It certainly explained the Void and Air Strands and the fact that his teacher was not here. He was about to turn and leave when his gaze fell on the shelves of books built into the wall behind the Preceptor’s desk.

“Ooh! Books!”

Curiosity overrode good judgment. Nundle strode across the crimson rug and stepped around the desk, his gaze running over the rows of colorful volumes.

Sliding the heavy desk chair closer to the shelves, he climbed atop the seat and studied the bottom row. The leather-bound covers were different shades of browns, blacks, and grays, while the canvas books were a mix of bright blues, reds, and greens. Titles were stamped or embossed on the spines with gold, silver, or black lettering. The books so enthralled Nundle that he forgot he was standing in Preceptor Myrr’s office, uninvited and alone.

One book grabbed his attention,
Amamene’s Study of Will,
a brown leather-bound volume by an author he had never read. As he reached his hand toward it,
a faint, colorless crackling rustled inside of him. His heart leapt into his throat.

Spinning around, he expected the see the preceptor standing there and ready to deal with him harshly for the intrusion.

The office was still empty.

Closing his eyes, Nundle muttered, “Oh, thank the gods.”

After taking a quick, steadying breath, he opened his eyes and focused on the sensation of magic. They were ebony Strands of Void, but much fainter than before.

Eyeing the open door, he quietly called, “Hello?”

There was no response.

Confused, he muttered, “Where is that coming from?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of movement on the desk. Other than a few books and some sheets of parchment spread in a haphazard fan shape, it appeared empty. Curious, he hopped off the chair and scooted to the desk. Standing on his toes, he peered over the edge. Reaching out, he slid the top parchment to the side and froze.

Handwriting was appearing on one of the sheets as though by an invisible hand, the script rushed and agitated. Apparently, the invisible hand was in a rush.

“Well, that’s a nifty trick.”

It occurred to him that he was in a rather untenable situation. Should Preceptor Myrr return from wherever he had gone and found Nundle rummaging through his belongings, he would not be happy. “I should go.”

He was about to replace the top parchment when a particular phrase in the message’s text made him stop. Eyes narrowing, Nundle slid the scrawled-upon parchment from those on top of it and read from the beginning. He reached the last word a moment or two after the writing stopped.