Tortallan Short Stories: Oddly enough, the first one is actually Carthaki. This is just a series of short stories from the characters lives that begin to fill in the missing pieces. This first one comes from the enigmatic existence of Numair…
A Midwinter's Night
^v^v^v^v^
Lindhall Reed stood on the small terrace, leaning on the marble railing and looking at, but not seeing, the garden below. Behind him, the ball was still in full swing, and he blocked the sounds of the celebrators out of his mind. It was the seventh night of midwinter, but the red robe that he wore over a shirt and breeches was suited to the mildness of the Carthaki winter.
A well-trained mage, he could easily feel the blaze of power approaching him from behind, but he didn't turn around until his nineteen-year-old former student, Arram Draper (now Numair Salmalín*), joined him at the rail, looking self-conscious in a brand new black mage's robe. They gazed into the small pond in silence for several minutes before Lindhall said quietly, "I never got the opportunity to congratulate you."
Numair didn't look at him, but only because he was admiring the sleeping fish. "Thank you. I never would have passed without your coaching."
Lindhall waved the comment away. "Had I such knowledge, I would have tried for a black robe myself. It takes something special to earn one." Numair shook his head.
"It was pure luck. All the tasks were the ones I had prepared for."
"Arram—"
"Numair."
"Numair, you prepared for every task possible," Lindhall argued. "I saw you in your workroom late at night, studying until you fell off your stool. And then you got back up and studied some more."
"It was only cramming," Numair protested. "I always cram before exams."
"Then I suppose all your 'cramming' has remained in your memory for your entire life," retorted Lindhall, "not to mention the fact that you've been studying for the black robe examination for over a year."
"Not that any of it matters," Numair said. "Most of the spells are worthless—after the exam, how many times do you think I'll be asked to build a house of cards using only my Gift to hold a pair of chopsticks?"
Lindhall smothered a chuckle. "Magical dexterity is important," he lectured, before both former teacher and former student burst out laughing. They quickly became serious again.
"So is this it?" Lindhall asked. "You're leaving?"
Numair nodded gravely. "I can't stand living under Ozorne anymore. He monitors my every spell."
Lindhall sighed. "At least wait a week or so—you were asleep for three whole days. You don't want to approach the emperor until you have all your wits about you."
"True." Numair sighed. The two men didn't speak for several minutes. Without warning, Numair turned to face the older man and whispered, "Help me. I'm scared."
Lindhall was taken aback. His head snapped around to stare at his former student. Arram, that is, Numair, had been between a rock and a hard place countless times during their long and solid friendship, and he always solved his own problems with minimal outside assistance and even less admission of fear. In fact, thought Lindhall, I don't think he's ever said those words to anyone.
"I'm scared," Numair said again in a hoarse whisper. His hands clenched the stone railing until Lindhall was sure it would crack. Not willing to take the chance, he firmly pried Numair's hands away.
"Listen to me," he demanded. Numair looked at him, eyes wild with fear. "Do you remember what I told you before your black robe test?"
Numair was able to give a wry smile. "Which one of the thousand?"
Lindhall returned his smile. "I told you that I know you can do it, the other teachers know you can do it, and even Ozorne, though he may deny it, knows that you can do it."
"'All that's left,'" Numair finished, "'is for me to know that I can do it.' So you're saying that Ozorne knows I'll escape? Won't that make it harder for me?"
Lindhall shook his head. "Ozorne is a megalomaniac incapable of being truthful, especially with himself. He knows in his heart that you will never serve him, but he refuses to believe it. Trust him to be obdurate and careless."
"In other words," Numair said, "I should have more faith in myself than in him. Correct?"
Lindhall smiled. "Correct. That shouldn't be hard, I imagine." Numair snorted and began mumbling to himself.
With a shake of his head, Lindhall went back to watching the fish. He hoped Numair was feeling slightly more relaxed. As for him, well…he loved Numair like a son or a brother, or possibly both. A small knot of foreboding began to grow in the teacher's stomach.
^v^v^v^v^
*In Wild Magic, Alanna suggests to Daine that she call to Numair as Arram because "he's only been Numair for eight years." At that time, Numair was 27 years old (I think it mentions his age as 28 in Wolf-Speaker and he's called "just barely thirty" in Realms of the Gods, and the books each cover one of four consecutive years), meaning he must have adopted the name Numair Salmalín at age nineteen. But it's also mentioned that he fled Carthak "just before his twenty-first birthday," meaning he must have used the name Numair for some length of time in Carthak, even if only with his trusted friends (otherwise he would have had to take a new name upon absconding). Obviously, Salmalín can't just be the name he gave himself when he escaped, as everyone seems to assume.