Nymus saw uncertainty in his eyes for the first time in years. He is so small and young—even for all his worth.
MIGHT & MAGIC
THE SEA OF MIST
Mel Odom
Scan/OCR - Demilich
Prologue
Nymus strode across the heated sands of the arena toward her opponent. Her long black robes touched the ground but left no trail. Around them, the tiers of black stone seats sat empty, stretching up a hundred feet. The place was old and known to few. Only magic would show the path. It had been a millennium since blood had spilled onto the white sand, but she knew that the sand was always thirsty.
The hot sun blazed overhead. It was eternally noon here because she willed it. This was where she had spent so much of her life, and this was where she'd battled and killed whomever she agreed to battle and kill—for a price.
Nymus stopped in front of her opponent and crossed her arms over her breasts. She drew herself up to her full demon's height so that she towered over him. Her skin was a deep, ruddy red, and thick, black horns sprouted from her forehead and curled over the back of her skull to form a bony helmet. Her ears rose to sharp points. Her race gave rise to all kinds of legends and tales shared by the dwarves, elves, gnolls, ores, and humans.
"Are you ready?" she demanded. The boy stood slowly and with a hint of rebellion, pushing himself up with grace and strength. He was six years old—his body bronzed by exposure to the sun and wind. Scars marred his skin, from failures as well as successes, but he'd earned each and every one.
Blond hair the color of dark, rich amber brushed the boy's shoulders and ruffled in the wind. His pale gray eyes and high cheekbones promised an uncommon handsomeness in the man the boy would become should he live to see that day. Brass warrior's bracelets bearing snarling griffins glinted as they caught the sun. His body, bare except for a loincloth, was lean and taut.
The boy looked at Nymus and answered in a brave voice. "I am ready, Mistress." His eyes never left hers as he bowed, and his hands stayed at his sides, his fingertips grazing his thighs.
"Do me proud, boy," Nymus commanded, "or die!" Without warning, she drew a long throwing knife from inside her robe sleeve, whipping it forward. Even as the blade left her fingers she knew it flew unerringly toward the boy's throat.
The boy never flinched, holding her gaze as he slammed his palms together and caught the knife smoothly between them. The blade continued sliding through his hands, not cutting into flesh because he held his palms as she'd taught him, and stopped when the hilt touched the bottoms of his hands. Ripping the knife between his palms, he caught the handle effortlessly.
"Arrogance," Nymus told him.
"No," he replied. "I'm good."
Nymus gestured again, and a dust devil took shape in front of the boy. It bit into the sand, sucking up a skeleton clad in tattered armor and clothing.
The skeleton jerked its head up and focused on the boy with eyesockets that held raw red fire. It snapped its right hand, pulling up on the cord around the bony wrist so that the short-hafted, double-bitted axe smacked against its palm. The skeleton stood nearly three times as tall as the boy and its fangs and long snout marked it as a gnoll. Jaws gaping, the skeleton lifted its cracked shield and charged.
The boy ducked beneath the skeleton's swing, sprawling, then rolling to his feet again with sure-footed grace. Nymus heard the words of power as the boy spoke them, and felt the dry air around them sizzle with the energy he gathered.
Even at six, the boy was powerful.
The skeleton turned to face him again, its huge feet dug into the sand. The boy flung his hand forward. A shimmer passed through the air, invisible to the untrained eye, and when it reached the skeleton, bones cracked and the un-dead thing came apart in a whirl of snapping ligaments.
Surprised that the skeleton had been beaten so easily, Nymus took pride in the fact that she had taught the boy so well. She prepared another spell.
Sand spewed into the air around them, blocking out the view of the tiers of seats beyond. The cloudy dust continued to rise, blocking out the sun and the sky as well. Then, just as abruptly, a small island of sand dropped through the floor of the arena.
Automatically, the boy crouched down into a three-pointed stance, the knuckles of one hand resting on the sand in front of him while the other hand continued holding the knife for a gut-shredding swipe.
Slowly, the sand thinned around them, allowing sight of the huge cavern that now lay beneath the arena. The top of the cavern above them looked conical, as if they were peering up at the mouth of a volcano. That effect was further carried out by the heat that suddenly surrounded them, and the red glow coming from below.
The boy peered over the island's side. The red glow came from a boiling cauldron of lava. Livid green spots marred the lava surface, bubbling and shifting as the lava turned over around them. Black gas drifted up from the green spots, dispersing before they reached the island Nymus had created with her spell.
Other islands of volcanic rock drifted by only a little lower than Nymus's island. Some of them were only the length of a man's arm while others were nearly a hundred feet in diameter.
Nymus closed on the boy before he knew she was coming. She curled her hand around his neck, pleased with the way he instinctively tried to escape her merciless grip.
The boy struck with his knife. Even as the knife cut toward her face, Nymus flung the boy far from her. He sailed through the air and over numerous floating islands, twisting like a cat and managing to gain control over his fall. He barely caught hold of one of the smaller ones— far away from where the demon stood—with one hand.
Nymus watched blood seep from between the boy's fingers, collecting on the back of his hand, then curling down his arm. He clings stubbornly to the rock even though it cuts him. Another wave of surprise filled her. Training the boy had been so much easier when he did nothing to earn her respect.
Without a word, the boy slid his knife between his teeth, grabbed hold of the island with his other hand, and pulled himself up. He stood and glared at her, blood covering his body. Then, he held his hands out and whispered a healing spell, causing his wounds to close and the blood to stop flowing. The boy smiled. "I'm waiting," he taunted. Does he truly have no fear as he appears, Nymus wondered, as she often had in the six years she'd been training him, or does he hide it?
Nymus crossed her arms. "To complete your final test," she said, "you must make your way back to me."
The boy glanced around, plotting the course of the other islands swirling through the volcanic heat around him. Without another word, he hurled himself to the left. He missed the next island but caught the edge, pulling himself up in a lithe scramble. Once on his feet, he ran across the island and threw himself toward another without hesitation, screaming in victory as if the idea of death didn't even exist.
"If you fall," Nymus called out, "you'll die."
The boy leaped to a new island, throwing his whole body into the effort. "I won't fall," he yelled. This time, though, the island edge crumbled beneath his hands and he slid down the side.
At the last moment though, he gathered his feet under him, then uncoiled his body in a rolling flip that propelled him from the island's side. He arched his back, controlling his leap from the island, and spiraled high above the bubbling lava. Incredibly, he landed with a thief's grace atop an island no more than six feet in diameter. He yelled again, boastful and arrogant, emotions that were so human they were anathema to Nymus. But at the same time, the yell was filled with brimming hostility and challenge, things that the Demoniac couldn't help but take credit for.
The boy turned and looked for another course, then chose and leaped again. His next landing—drawing him ever closer to the demon—sliced his bare feet, which left bloody tracks as he sprinted for his next island.
As he jumped in the air, a leathery shape dropped from the darkness and streaked straight at him, spreading its leathery wings and claws. It was a reptilian crothar, a deadly bird of prey with huge, gaping jaws.
Warned by the predator's shadow, the boy landed and rolled, just beneath the attack. The reptile missed by inches and flew up again for another attack.
Rolling to his feet, the boy threw out a hand. A shimmer from the boy's palm became an icy fusillade that smashed into the creature's narrow, elongated back. The crothar squalled in rage as it tumbled through the air, then spread its wings and rose again—riding the thermals and circling back for its prey.
The boy was only a few islands from Nymus when he sensed something and ducked.
An arrow whizzed by his face. Looking over the edge of the island, he saw red-and-black-colored imps on the land below. They were no taller than the boy but monkey-like, with horns and fangs.
Missing him, clutch of other arrows smacked into the winged reptile's chest, which was just above the boy and had been prepared to strike. The crothar faltered, lowering itself to within reach.
Understanding at once the danger he was in, the boy grabbed the nearest wing and swung himself up onto the reptile's back. The crothar lost its strength and its wings started to fold inward, losing altitude. The boy laid along the crothar's body, his blond hair flying, then grabbed the reptile's wings in his strong hands and spread them out, stretching the membranes taut. The effort helped keep the dead bird in the air, and the boy used his weight to control their gliding fall.
From high above Nymus welled with pride.
The boy flew the crothar to another island and, at the last moment, he leaped from the reptile's corpse and jumped off. He hardly paused, though, already sensing that the imps were charging after him.
The boy grinned.
Moving quickly with the acrobatic grace of a thief, he led them on a merry chase along the path through the islands, jumping back up through the air as arrows fell all around him.
A group of yelling imps climbed the rock he was on and cut him off. The boy threw his arms forward, a spell already on his lips.
A shimmer sliced through the air, then touched the imps and blew them back like they'd been caught in a whirlwind. Several of them lifted from the island and tumbled over the side, falling toward the lava below. They screamed all the way down.
Looking up, the boy made his way back to Nymus.
Four islands later, he stood before her. His chest heaved as he drew in air, but his gray eyes sparked with excitement.
"I've won," he declared, "call off the rest of them."
Nymus' face was dark and serious.
"Yes!' she said, "you have."
With a wave of her hand, the pursuing imps simply vanished, and Nymus watched the boy carefully, waiting for the reality of his situation to now, finally, sink in.
Silence stretched a long time between them. The boy looked at her curiously.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
"It means," Nymus said, "that your training with me is complete."
Fear haunted the boy's eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"It is time for you to move on." she said solemnly. "You will go to the Magistracy at Soronne, there you will learn more, but you will learn in the ways of the light, as I have taught you in darkness. Pay attention to your teachers, boy. They will want you to choose only one learning, but you must study as much as you can—for as long as you can. Your path will be hard through this life. To prepare, you must master all the towers, as you have mastered my training."
The boy shook his head. He had thought this was just a test, like all the others. He had no idea it meant the end.
"Towers?" he whispered.
"Six in a circle, each one specializing in a different art. The Shadow Tower instructs thieves and assassins. Clerics strengthen their learning in Tork the Mild's Staff. A warrior hones his arsenal in the Circle of Steel. Eldrar's tower is for mages and only two towers, Hraldrake's Crossing and Dragonskull, remain closed."
"Soronne..." the boy whispered. The word sounded foreign on his tongue.
Nymus saw uncertainty in his eyes for the first time in years. He is so small and young—even for all his worth.
"How far is Soronne?" he asked. Nymus wondered how she could explain travel between lands. "A very far distance." "Will I meet my family?" Nymus didn't answer. In truth, the secret of his origin was kept even from her.
"Be brave, boy," she said, "and no matter what happens, never stop training. Your destiny is great, but shrouded in darkness and difficulty. Be strong, survive, and do me proud." The boy stared at her, confused, alone. "I don't want to go," he said. Nymus made her voice hard. "I struck a bargain, as I've told you, a long time ago. You must go."
The boy tightened his fist, but his eyes welled up.
"Will I ever see you again?" he asked.
The Demoniac found her voice strangely tight. She, who had commanded armies and fiends and unleashed powerful magic that had killed enemies by the dozens, was at a loss for words. Even she had not been prepared for the boy's leaving.
"I think not," she said.
The boy stiffened.
"I will return here," he declared. "I will return and find you."
In her heart, the words touched Nymus, but outwardly, she could not condone such imputance.
"If you do," she said, "without fulfilling your prophecy, I will be forced to kill you."
Nymus looked up then, and the sand-covered island rose, returning once more to the arena.
After the sandstorm died, the ground didn't look disturbed at all, and the sun gazed down at them as if nothing had happened.
Hoofbeats against the arena's sand could now be heard, and the boy turned quickly, a hand on his knife.
To their right, a rider passed through the arena wall as if it weren't there. He was a slender man of medium height, with black hair and a short-cropped black beard. A breastplate of black armor glinted in the noon sun. A sword jutted up from the horse's saddle in easy reach, and a brace of throwing knives crossed his chest.
Nymus turned to face the rider just as the boy took one protective step in front of her. He held his knife slightly behind him, shielding it from the warrior's sight.
Riding up, the warrior reined in his mount, then gazed around the arena as if halfway expecting an ambush. After a moment, he gazed at the boy in open speculation, then at Nymus. He touched his chest in greeting. "It is good to see you again, Ny..."
"Do not mention my name," Nymus interrupted. "The boy has not yet learned who I am."
The warrior regarded the boy.
"He lives," he said simply.
"You are surprised?"
"Perhaps. As you know," he smiled, "you are not known as a kind taskmistress." "Is he ready?"
"If he were not, he would be dead." The warrior studied the boy and smiled. "He's so small."
"He is six, Govan. For a human, he's but a child."
"For a human," Govan agreed. The horse shifted, swishing its tail and stamping its feet. "Are you ready to go, boy?" Govan asked playfully.
The shadows of the carrion birds overhead soared closer, streaking above them across the ground. Nymus felt the stillness in the air. She looked down.
Before she knew it, the boy moved, gambling desperately on one fierce attack. His arm drew back and he loosed the knife before she could stop him. No! Her head whipped around, following the knife's trajectory.
The boy's skill was everything she'd taught him, and the knife sliced through the air like a diving falcon.
Govan raised a hand and the knife pierced his palm, quivering and making his hand shake from the force. Seemingly unfazed, Govan turned his hand and gazed at the knife. He smiled slightly, but there was a sickness in the effort. "You've trained him well... very well."
Whipping around, Nymus smacked the boy fiercely—knocking him to the ground. She let him see the anger in her eyes—anger that wiped away the caring attachment she was already trying to shake.
"How dare you insult me?" she hissed.
A shocked expression covered the boy's face. He started to touch the red mark, but was too startled to move.
"A student of mine," Nymus continued, "knows that willful disobedience reflects poorly on the skills of both the student... and the teacher."
She stared deeply into the boy's eyes and saw realization dawn within them.
"I'm sorry, Mistress," he said. "I have made a mistake. I thought perhaps this was another test."
Nymus let out a sigh.
"The test is over," she said. "It's time for you to go, just as we have always discussed."
Tears fell from the boy's eyes as he stood. "Yes, Mistress," he said boldly.
Nymus switched her gaze to Govan. "He's yours now, take him." But a heavy weight was in her heart.
Govan turned his attention to the knife in his palm. Without expression, he pulled the blade from his flesh and concentrated for a moment. A shimmer occurred, and his flesh healed instantly. Wiggling his fingers, he flicked the knife disdainfully at the boy.
The knife thudded against the ground at his feet, but it didn't stick.
"Come with me," he commanded.
The boy stuck his toes under the blade and flipped it up, grabbing it as quickly as a frog taking a fly.
The boy's face was stone as he walked toward the warrior.
Govan shook loose a short length of rope. "Give me the knife."
The boy did, and Govan expertly bound his hands together. Once he had the boy secure, he pulled him up and laid him across the saddle in front of him.
Nymus watched.
"You've done well with him," Govan said. "My mistress will be very pleased. Consider your debt paid in full."
Nymus's eyes lowered. "Govan!" she said in a soft voice. "Never let me hear that the boy has been mistreated." She looked up. "Do you understand?"
Govan gazed at her, and a nerve flickered on his scarred cheek. "You would have me deliver that message?"
"Yes. And tell your mistress that whatever name she decides to call the boy, he shall also carry my demon's mark of El. I bequeath it to him, and my wish will be honored."
Wordlessly, Govan pulled on the warhorse's reins, backing the proud animal away cautiously, one hand resting on the sword hilt. "I'll make sure of that," he said, saluting. "Until we meet again."
Nymus watched the boy slung over the saddle. He looked back at her, his face marked with pain and confusion. A sandstorm whipped up from nowhere and obscured her view, and Go-van used his own magic to find his path away from the arena.
In seconds, they were gone and Nymus stood alone with the carrion birds overhead.
A human child, she mused, yet I cared for him.
And with that, she turned away, trying to understand the emptiness in her heart, and thinking about the small boy she slowly came to love.
Fourteen years later.
1
Between classes, the halls of Eldrar's Tower filled with students, all of them hurrying to their next class. The students consisted of men and women, from preteens to elders, and encompassed all civilized races of many different worlds—all brought together for the common goal of learning. The learning center consisted of six Towers forming a circle over a one-mile radius.
No one who wanted an education and was willing to work was turned away.
Torches lit the wide hallway, held in iron sconces against foot-thick walls. Voices echoed and created a rumbling din that sounded like distant thunder. Some of the students carried their own small lanterns, either in hand or dangling from the cords of their robes.
Praz-El stepped through the other students and felt irritated at their presence. He was half a head taller than the tallest one and they all deferred to him because his temper and fighting skills were both legendary. He wore his amber hair tied back by a blue leather thong. Loose robes covered his broad, powerful frame.
He locked his gaze on the open window at the end of the hall, determined that nothing should stand between him and the brief illusion of freedom it offered.
The hallway ended in a nook that held three small tables that listed badly from years of student abuse. Two elves and a dwarf were in heated conversation when Praz arrived. They looked up at the young warrior's approach and quickly abandoned both their argument and their table.
Stepping past the table, Praz put his hands on the window frame and leaned outside. The stone—warmed by the morning sun—felt good against his palms. A window box filled with pink and purple flowers sat nearby, compliments of the cleric school.
The six Towers that made up the Magistracy stood in the center of Soronne. Standing on the fifth floor of Eldrar's Tower, where mages learned how to wield arcane arts, Praz looked out over the city.
Soronne, the strong center of the Six Shards, had been built on a series of hills that undulated through forested terrain. The houses and buildings of the city lay scattered in all directions. Some of the buildings and homes were grand, constructed of carefully quarried stones chosen for their colors, but many others were merely hovels.
There was no competing with it, though, as the land was lush and rich. To the south, other nations watched the Six Shards grow fat and selfish, and the only thing stopping them from taking Soronne and all the land around it were the six Towers that pulsed with life and power.
Even the northern countries lusted after the bounty of the Six Shards. The Brass Sea separated Upper and Lower Tamarck, but the ships that easily sailed across that distance could also carry troops.
Already, Makkall, Threnoc, and Albeys had formed a loose confederacy whose ultimate goal was one day to take the lands Soronne presently held.
War would be good, Praz thought as he stood there a moment breathing in the fresh air and basking in the sunlight. He pictured himself as a decorated hero, a warrior born to lead troops into battle, seated astride a great white horse.
Soon, he told himself.
He glanced down at Soronne, seeing the disrepair of the city around the Towers. Even though the four remaining Magistrates were now ruling the city, Soronne had recently become a hotbed of activity, creating deep areas of depression. In fact, all of the Magistrates of the Towers strongly suggested that students not carry their curiosity into the more debilitated sectors of Soronne.
But during his fourteen years at the Magistracy, Praz had made a point of visiting nearly every one of those places. That decision was made partly out of spite, and partly because the academic life was not nearly exciting enough. Several of those establishments knew him well, and a few even offered a price on his head to anyone strong enough to get rid of him. A few had tried, but none had ever succeeded.
As a result, Praz never went unarmed. He always carried his spell book and at least three blades hidden in his robes or worn boldly on his street clothes when in poor neighborhoods.
Glancing down at the city, the young warrior wondered when he would finally be free from it all—the school, Soronne, and most of all, the constant questions that continued to haunt his mind.
In all the time he'd been at the Towers—with everything he'd learned and all he'd come to realize—the biggest questions of his life were still a mystery. He knew nothing of his parents, why he'd been taken from his Mistress, or why he'd been sent to the Towers at all. In the beginning, those questions had been easy to avoid. The trip to Soronne had been long and hard, and once there, he had much to learn. His mind was constantly being kept busy—by other students, teachers or excursions into town. But now, things were changing. He could feel it in the air, and he could feel it in himself. The Towers wanted him to choose a single skill to concentrate in, and Praz knew he could not. Remembering his Mistress's words only made him remember the destiny she spoke of, and as he tried to see the lands beyond his eye's sight, he wondered why he was even there at all.
"Hey, Praz!" someone called.
Turning, Praz scanned the hallway filled with students.
Telop Vine, an elf from Arkor, a small elven community to the south, pushed through the crowd and came toward Praz. The elf was as tall as his race generally was, and his pointed ears marked him immediately. Hair the color of a raven's wing hung down into his violet eyes, and a habitual mocking smile played on his lips.
"Shouldn't you be in the clerics tower today?" Praz asked.
Telop waved his hand in the air. "I should be," he said, "but I've got something much more exciting to discuss. Ready for some action tonight?"
"Maybe," Praz said.
"Still moody?"
Praz looked away. "I'm not moody. I'm bored."
Telop waved the protest away.
"I know how to make our pockets fat and relieve that boredom, my friend. Wyrengo managed to track down that band of outlaws that hit the Crimson Hawk last week."
Praz looked up, deciding that maybe a little action was exacty what he needed.
"Really?" he asked. "Where?"
"At Hanged Man's Inn," Telop whispered. He glanced around, making sure that none of the students were listening. Hanged Man's Inn was notorious in Soronne. It was named not because of one incidence of hanging, but for several that had taken place over the years.
"Wyrengo is certain?" Praz asked.
At fourteen, Wyrengo was Telop's youngest brother and often rode as a message herald for Heronport. Quiet and shy, he kept his eyes and ears open.
"Yes," Telop replied. "He identified the men from a description given to all the heralds." "How many in the group?" "Only five. And one of them is wounded."
Praz thought quickly.
"How much do you think they're holding?"
Telop grinned. "Does it matter?"
Praz scratched his chin, only then realizing that he'd forgotten to shave again. This made four days, or maybe five.
"Okay," he said, "I'll go."
"Good," Telop said happily "I'll meet you tonight at Rubahl's alehouse. Just after sundown."
Telop clapped him on the shoulder. "Maybe this little adventure will help lift this damned mood you've been in lately."
Praz was about to speak when his gaze fell on a black-haired beauty that came around the corner of the hall.
"Gods preserve us," Telop grumbled, seeing who had instantly claimed Praz's attention.
"Shut up," Praz warned.
"She's a snob," Telop whispered. "She hardly gives us the time of day."
Praz pushed him on the chest and out of the way "Get lost," he said.
Telop shuddered from the impact. Wincing, he rubbed his chest.
"All right," he said. "I'll go! But I'm telling you, Praz, that girl is no good."
Praz turned and strode toward the young woman.
I'm willing to take the risk, he thought.
Since he'd become fascinated by women years ago, Praz had known his share of them. Some were prettier and others were more fun to be around, but he'd never found one that had elicited the same response in him that Lissella Morely did.
Lissella was a breathtaking beauty. Even the school robes couldn't disguise the lean-hipped, high-breasted figure beneath. Her face was heart-shaped, her cheekbones delicate, and black hair flowed to her shoulders. She had a light tan, not enough to make her dark, but only enough to give her color. Her eyes glittered like sapphires, and her parted lips—even when curled in displeasure—never failed to make Praz's breath stop short.
Walking by, she never broke stride, and she never did more than barely glance in his direction.
"Lissella," Praz greeted.
"Hello, Praz," she said quickly without looking at him.
"On your way to class?" he asked.
She glanced up at him. "Where else would I be going?"
Dumb, Praz thought. That was dumb. He gazed at her, and his eyes immediately dropped to the curve of her full breasts. He caught himself, though.
"Don't you have a class to get to?" Lissella asked.
"I've got a meeting with Magistrate Bo." "Something that couldn't wait till you got home?"
After Praz was dropped off on the steps of the Magistracy as a small boy, Magistrate Bo had taken him in. It was difficult enough for a son to deal with a surrogate father with sky-high expectations, but it was worse when that father was the Magistrate of Eldrar's Tower at the Magistracy in Soronne.
"We, um, we don't talk about school at home," Praz said.
Lissella smiled, obviously intrigued. "Not speak of school at home? Really?"
Praz burned even more. As Magistrate of Eldrar's Tower, Bo lived in a suite on the top floor of the Tower. It was where they were now. Not talking about school at home—when school was home—was ludicrous, he realized. "That's not what I meant," he said. "Then what did you mean?" Lissella asked. Praz stammered for a response, but it was difficult to explain—as was his relationship with his foster father.
"Amazing." Lissella smiled. "You can't even hold a proper discussion."
"This isn't a damn discussion," Praz snapped. "This is another one of your faultfinding attacks/'
Lissella raised a brow. "Fault-finding? Gods above, Praz, if I was seeking to find faults in someone, don't you think Fd find someone more challenging? Your whole life here is one fault after another."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" she asked. "You take this gift you've been given, these Towers, and you squander it like you do coins in those taverns you seek out in the dead of night."
Praz stared at her. How does she know about that?
"Instead of ogling nearly naked women of low breeding and questionable morals," Lissella went on, "maybe you should apply yourself to your studies. Maybe then, after long and intensive effort, you could make something of yourself."
Praz shook his head. "I'm an excellent student."
"Of course, you're an excellent student," Lissella admitted, "But you'll still have to choose a Tower if you ever hope to master that art."
"Maybe I'll master them all," Praz said confidently.
Lissella laughed, not bothering to hide her derision. "Nobody can master all of them."
"Why not?" he said. "Just because something hasn't been done doesn't mean that it can't be. Why, a month ago no one would believe that Ar-rak could be defeated in the Circle of Steel Tower."
"Any swordsman can beat another," Lissella pointed out. "That was one of the first things Arrak taught us in his class. Just because you beat him doesn't mean you can't be beaten."
Praz forced his breath out. "No one in class has beaten me yet."
"Then perhaps you should consider being a warrior."
"I'm more than a warrior."
Lissella crossed her arms over her breasts and raised an eyebrow again.
"You can't be everything."
Praz remembered mistress's words, now etched in his mind.
"I can," he whispered.
Despite her aggravation, Lissella's eyes twinkled for a moment. It was an interesting thought, but she couldn't let Praz know it.
"It's time to grow up, Praz," she said. Even Telop, whom I thought was every bit as infantile as you, declared his intentions over a year ago. Why don't you pick a Tower to follow? You'd be good at any of them."
Praz stared at her intently.
"I've already told you what I intend to do."
Lissella was silent for a moment, then shifted her books in her arms. "Gods bless me with patience, for you are certainly the most stubborn boy I've ever had the misfortune to know."
"My stubbornness is one of my better qualities." Praz smiled. "Upon occasion—few occasions, I must admit—a teacher has commented on my... tenacity. They even told me that if exercised properly, it will stand me in good stead."
"I don't see how."
Pra* smiled wider.
"Well, at the moment that tenacity is keeping me talking to you despite your holier-than-thou attitude."
Spots of color flamed Lissella's cheeks.
"That's right," Praz told her, "there are some who consider you a snob. Someone who thinks herself far above the rest of the student body here at the Magistracy."
Lissella pulled her books to her breasts and folded her arms about herself protectively. "Tell me who these people are," she whispered darkly.
The young warrior put an arm around her shoulder and gently guided her to walk down the hallway.
"You look a bit angry," he said. "Maybe I should show you to your next class before you make a scene."
"Me? Me make a scene?" Lissella gazed at him with cold fury and slapped away his hand. "And you'll not be walking me down the hallway, Praz. Not when you have the emotional sensibility of a digger worm." She spun on her heel and marched off, her books solidly in front of her like a shield.
A recessed, ornate door on the right opened ahead of Lissella's forced march. A portly man with an eyepatch over his left eye and a cane in his right hand stepped from the room. "Lissella!" the man called. "Father," the young woman replied, hardly breaking stride.
"Young lady," Devlin Morely said officiously, "you know better than to hurry through the hallways in such a manner." "I'm escaping, Father." "Escaping? Escaping what?" "A wildebeest," she said over her shoulder. "Can't you smell it?"
Morely glanced down the hallway and blinked his single eye at Praz. His brow went up. "I see," he said.
Devlin Morely was one of the greatest scientists at the Magistracy. He was also one of Praz's foster father's closest friends. Over the years, Morely and Lissella had been frequent guests at Bo's home. However, Morely also had reservations about Praz that the young warrior had never quite understood.
Old and proper, Morely's hair was mostly gray these days; his skin was blanched and loose, and a lot of spring had left his stride. Still, most Magistracy teachers and the Magistrates themselves valued his time. His curiosity could be seized by almost any mystery he perceived, and he was most often found among the vast library stacks.
Lissella disappeared around a corner and, at that moment, Bo stepped from the office and joined Morely in the hallway. Wizened and tall, Magistrate Bo showed his elven ancestry in his pointed ears and slight build. His light brown hair was bound back by a silver headband.
In his red Magistrate's robes with the collar turned up, Bo stood regal and commanding. The students in the hallway instantly called out their greetings.
Praz tried to avoid his father's eye, but Bo was quick.
"Praz," he said. "You're a little early for our meeting, but that's nice for a change. Come."
He turned as a large man appeared at his side. "Alagar," Bo said "I'm sorry that we didn't have more time to talk. Can we meet later?"
"Of course," the man said. "Whenever you have time."
Praz looked at the man closely, for Alagar was even bigger than he was. He wore deerskin pants and a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves pushed up. His shaven head gleamed, and tattooing marked his black arms. A squirrel's skull with eyesockets filled with bright topaz gems dangled on a necklace against the man's chest.
Shaking Bo's hand, Alagar's eyes fell on Praz.
"Go inside, Praz," Bo said. "I'll only be another moment."
"Yes sir," Praz said, feeling the stranger gaze sternly at him as they both walked their separate ways.
Morely turned to Bo. "We really need to discuss this fountain under the Nexus," he said.
Standing inside his foster father's office, Praz's ears pricked up instantly.