running the place, what are you doing?”
“This and that. Building bridges with the Library, for one. Soon we’ll be taking students and finally be a schoolhouse in more than just name.” Narvi shrugged. “I coordinate things, some here, some in Anstice. Mostly I just solve problems so other people can do the real work.”
“No sorcery?”
“Not much. And honestly, I can’t say I miss it. All those hours in your own head trying to figure out why the damn construct keeps collapsing.” He gave a rueful smile. “Probably sounds mad to you. Sitting and thinking — who wouldn’t want to do that, right?”
Arandras shrugged. Only a handful of people could reach into the world around them and touch sorcery. Aside from a brief time during childhood, he’d never wished it for himself. “And Katriel?”
“In Anstice, and taller every day.” Narvi grinned. “You’d scarcely recognise her. She’s as high as my elbow now.”
“You’ve done well. I’m glad,” Arandras said, and found that it was true. “Listen, Narvi. I need to ask a favour. It’s… well, it’s about Tereisa.”
The sorcerer’s grin faded. “What about her?”
Arandras took a breath. “I think the man who killed her is still alive.”
“What? No, they found him.” Narvi made a face. “Dead in the river, wasn’t he?”
“I thought so,” Arandras said. “Until a few days ago. Just listen, please.” He began a brief account of the past several days, telling Narvi about the letter, the missing scribe, and the books he’d borrowed from the Library. Narvi listened without comment, raising his eyebrows when Arandras named the books. “And so I need to know what’s in those books. They’re the only lead I have, at least until Yevin gets back.”
Narvi shook his head. “Sounds thin, Arandras,” he said. “Honestly. There must be hundreds of people with similar writing to your man.”
“This wasn’t similar,” Arandras said. “It was the same.”
Narvi gave him a long look. “All right,” he said at last. He set down his wine and pushed himself to his feet. “Wait here.”
“Thank you.”
The door swung closed, and Arandras drained his glass. It was strange to be back in a schoolhouse again, even one such as this, drinking wine with Narvi like in the old days. How many times had they sat together on a cool Chogon evening, sometimes with Tereisa, sometimes with others, discussing the day’s work, or the quality of the season’s cherries, or whatever else took their fancy? Even now, it seemed, some part of him still thought of it as home. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising. He’d been happy, after all. No, more than that. I was content.
Because I still believed.
The door swung open, and Narvi entered with two slender volumes. “I haven’t even had a chance to look at them yet,” he said, passing them to Arandras. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Not really.” Arandras opened the first volume and began leafing through the hand-copied pages. The book bore the title Forms of Sorcery, and appeared to be an exposition on the sorcery employed by the Valdori before their fall, veering from military to religious to artistic applications and back again. Much of the content appeared to be highly speculative, if not outright fabrication. “Why did you borrow them?”
“I’ve got a team out in the field,” Narvi said. “We got word of an old Valdori religious site — some obscure sect or order local to this region, as far as we can tell. I’m trying to find out more.”
Arandras froze. “A field team,” he said casually, keeping his gaze on the book in front of him. “What are they hoping to find?”
“It’s — well, I can’t really say. I’m sorry. You know the rules.” The regret in Narvi’s tone was plain. “Maybe I can tell you more when they get back. Should be any day now.”
Or, perhaps, not at all. Arandras’s hand went to his bag, coming to rest on the small bump made by the
“This and that. Building bridges with the Library, for one. Soon we’ll be taking students and finally be a schoolhouse in more than just name.” Narvi shrugged. “I coordinate things, some here, some in Anstice. Mostly I just solve problems so other people can do the real work.”
“No sorcery?”
“Not much. And honestly, I can’t say I miss it. All those hours in your own head trying to figure out why the damn construct keeps collapsing.” He gave a rueful smile. “Probably sounds mad to you. Sitting and thinking — who wouldn’t want to do that, right?”
Arandras shrugged. Only a handful of people could reach into the world around them and touch sorcery. Aside from a brief time during childhood, he’d never wished it for himself. “And Katriel?”
“In Anstice, and taller every day.” Narvi grinned. “You’d scarcely recognise her. She’s as high as my elbow now.”
“You’ve done well. I’m glad,” Arandras said, and found that it was true. “Listen, Narvi. I need to ask a favour. It’s… well, it’s about Tereisa.”
The sorcerer’s grin faded. “What about her?”
Arandras took a breath. “I think the man who killed her is still alive.”
“What? No, they found him.” Narvi made a face. “Dead in the river, wasn’t he?”
“I thought so,” Arandras said. “Until a few days ago. Just listen, please.” He began a brief account of the past several days, telling Narvi about the letter, the missing scribe, and the books he’d borrowed from the Library. Narvi listened without comment, raising his eyebrows when Arandras named the books. “And so I need to know what’s in those books. They’re the only lead I have, at least until Yevin gets back.”
Narvi shook his head. “Sounds thin, Arandras,” he said. “Honestly. There must be hundreds of people with similar writing to your man.”
“This wasn’t similar,” Arandras said. “It was the same.”
Narvi gave him a long look. “All right,” he said at last. He set down his wine and pushed himself to his feet. “Wait here.”
“Thank you.”
The door swung closed, and Arandras drained his glass. It was strange to be back in a schoolhouse again, even one such as this, drinking wine with Narvi like in the old days. How many times had they sat together on a cool Chogon evening, sometimes with Tereisa, sometimes with others, discussing the day’s work, or the quality of the season’s cherries, or whatever else took their fancy? Even now, it seemed, some part of him still thought of it as home. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising. He’d been happy, after all. No, more than that. I was content.
Because I still believed.
The door swung open, and Narvi entered with two slender volumes. “I haven’t even had a chance to look at them yet,” he said, passing them to Arandras. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Not really.” Arandras opened the first volume and began leafing through the hand-copied pages. The book bore the title Forms of Sorcery, and appeared to be an exposition on the sorcery employed by the Valdori before their fall, veering from military to religious to artistic applications and back again. Much of the content appeared to be highly speculative, if not outright fabrication. “Why did you borrow them?”
“I’ve got a team out in the field,” Narvi said. “We got word of an old Valdori religious site — some obscure sect or order local to this region, as far as we can tell. I’m trying to find out more.”
Arandras froze. “A field team,” he said casually, keeping his gaze on the book in front of him. “What are they hoping to find?”
“It’s — well, I can’t really say. I’m sorry. You know the rules.” The regret in Narvi’s tone was plain. “Maybe I can tell you more when they get back. Should be any day now.”
Or, perhaps, not at all. Arandras’s hand went to his bag, coming to rest on the small bump made by the
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