There was nothing special about the night. It was quiet, mild. Only a small breeze moved the gauzy curtains that decorated the tall windows. The stillness was broken by the rhythmic tapping of polished fingernails on an enameled table top. The elegant elf clacked her fingers repetitively as she considered the girl who stood before her. Cercee's gaze had long since gone past the headmistress. Her eyes were directed at her instructor, but her focus was obviously elsewhere. The girls' features were taught, not at all the features of a youth. She did not look older than her years, only angrier. The headmistress sighed.
"Cercee," she finally said, over loud as to draw the girl back to the present. She watched as her gaze pulled back into focus, but not in the way a reprimanded child is startled back to attention. It was slow and practiced, as a broken meditation that must be let come to an end on its own. Cercee took a deep breath as her consciousness settled back into the room. Her attentive gaze was far colder than her far off stare.
"Yes, headmistress?" her voice was just as cold and just as far off.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes, and I was formulating a response," the girl replied quietly, almost as if she was irritated at having the thought interrupted.
The headmistress raised an eyebrow. "Most students do not hesitate when they are asked if they wish to continue at the Arcanum."
"I am not most students," she said simply.
"No," the headmistress admitted as she stood, "I suppose you wouldn't think so."
The girl's eyes flared slightly and her head cocked to one side a little. Otherwise she stood stone still as she watched the headmistress walk to the large open window.
"Your instructors do not feel you are giving them your full attention," the headmistress continued.
"They are wrong," Cercee interjected.
The headmistress turned. She demanded an explanation by raising both eyebrows.
The student sighed. "They are mistaken," she amended. "I am learning a great deal from their tutelage."
"Even so," she continued, "I believe you should examine what it is you want and what you are willing to put into your studies," she almost added an ultimatum, but decided against it, "You may go," she concluded instead.
Cercee stood for a brief moment, looking hard at the Headmistress. Then she bowed slightly and left the room, a wave of dis-ease flowing in her wake.
The headmistress stared at Cercee's back as she swept off down the corridor. She rose and left her chamber and strode on soft feet down a different hall and through another set of over tall double doors trimmed in gold and ivory. With a wave of her hand, she sent a magical herald ahead of her to announce her arrival. To simply barge in wouldn't be suitable, regardless of the reason. When she stopped at the anti-chamber to Magister Thaxeus's study, he was already prepared for her arrival.
"Thaxeus," she said politely.
"Madame," he inclined his head and smiled, "Won't you please have a seat."
She gave a brief curtsy and took a seat on a large settee.
He leaned on the arm of his chair and asked, "What brings you here so urgently?"
"I am that transparent?" she asked.
"No, but you are rarely this abrupt," he said.
She nodded. "You know Miss Morningray?"
"I have met her," he nodded.
"You knew her parents, yes?" she asked.
"Bailas," he said with a tone appropriate for the deceased. "Yes. Her mother not as well."
The Headmistress leaned back, "I am concerned for her. I was hoping perhaps you would look in on her, as an acquaintance of the family, perhaps you can guide her out of this malaise."
Thaxeus nodded. "I will as you have asked," he said. "She is back so soon?"
The Headmistress nodded. "I advised that she might take more time, but she insisted that she was quite capable of continuing."
"And you think she is not?"
"Her instructors insist she is distracted."
"Well, loosing both parents at once...no one would blame her for being overwrought," he said, crossing from his seat to a small table. He lifted a bottle and a glass to the Headmistress, who nodded.
"That is what concerns them," she explained as she poured, "she does not seem mournful at all." he handed her a glass and retook his own seat. "Only angry."
"That's normal as well," he said.
She nodded as she sipped, then said, "Yes, and she needs to understand that."
He sipped his own wine and thought it over. "Well, I can certainly speak to her. Grief works its own way, though, I am not sure it best that we interfere."
"Anger in a young talent is dangerous. Justified anger even more so."
"Ah, I see. You think she is a bit her father's daughter," he said.
"I think anyone in a position to take action considers it," she said. "I did not know Bailas well, although I understand he had a considerable temper. I'm more concerned that she go off looking for revenge or some kind of personal satisfaction."
Thaxeus scoffed at the idea. "That's juvenile," he said, dismissing the idea outright. "The Arcanum's students aren't meat headed oafs. Give your own pupils more credit than that." He folded his arms and leaned away from her, professionally insulted by the idea.
They sat for a moment, finishing the wine.
"You will speak to her and see if there is any reason for concern," she said.
"I will," he obliged politely.
"Thank you Thaxeus," she said as she stood. He rose as well. "I appreciate your assistance."
He bowed as he took back the glass. "Of course, madame," he smiled. She spun gracefully and retreated back down the hall to her own chambers, satisfied that a positive step had been taken.
There was little activity in the courtyard as Cercee hurried past the floating planters and ever vigilant enchanted brooms to the smaller building the students resided in. Her face was flush with anger and indignation. She was a fantastic student. She was quite attentive. She absorbed everything they taught. She read between the lines to learn what they did not teach. She slid into her room and closed the door. She furrowed her brow and took a deep breath. She didn't need the headmistresses concern. She had already decided the school was not the place for her. Their magic was not what she wished to master. The arcane was, well, old. It was past. It did not meet the challenges the new world faced. Too agitated to sleep, Cercee pulled a worn trunk from under her bed. Moving asides several textbooks, she finally came to the one she was looking for. It was small, leather bound, discolored and slightly water stained. Flipping the handwritten pages, she came to the page she was looking for. She had read it many times before, especially in the past several weeks.
Her father's notes were very specific. She could count on him for that, at least. Meticulous accuracy. Even though he would never have discussed it with her while he was alive, she had found in his notes record of his 'experimental phase'. A time in his young life when he thought he knew better than his instructors and mentors and was sure he was far more powerful than he actually was. Talented young mages are prone to such, if they are not taught proper discipline. She had been told that many times as a child. Her parents had insisted on proper discipline. It didn't take much digging to understand why that was. Her father had fallen prey to that temptation in his early education. He would not tell her what he had done, only that the promises of deeper power off the path of the arcane was a lie, false, weak and unpredictable. And it might have been left at that, had her mother not sent with her to the Arcanum a box of texts she thought would give her daughter an advantage in her education. Most of them, while interesting and advanced, were, to Cercee, nothing overly exciting. Until she reached the bottom of the trunk and discovered her father's notebooks. Covered and forgotten, they chronicled his own experiments outside of his accepted work. At first, she read about his attempts to reach beyond his learning, with mixed success. He sharply amended his attempts and corrected his errors. She had been impressed, it had given her great insight and new respect for him. It explained how he was able to rise so quickly, become so powerful. It certainly explained why her mother had been so attracted to him. She was shocked when he started taking a darker turn, asking questions she was vehemently discouraged from asking. He began experimenting with dark arts, forbidden lore. It interested him in much the same way it interested her, wondering why it had been shunned. So she delved with, at first great interest, and then with grave regret. Her father's interest turned from curiosity to greed. She could tell by the way he wrote. And she could tell why he failed. She had poured over his failures and realized what had happened. He was too proud. He was too conceited to realize when to bend. He was too rigid to allow a greater power to amend his point of view. It was what allowed him to give up on a stronger path, and eventually led to his death. Cercee re-read the first notations on summoning fel energy as she thought about this; her father's failure, her parents recent deaths. She would not make the same mistakes. When dawn rose over the shimmering city and the glorious golden spires of the Arcanum, Cercee sat triumphant in her darkened room, sweat pouring down her face and a row of dead rats along her bedroom wall. She had achieved the first spell laid out in her father's notes, and without burning her own essence, as he reportedly had. Elation beamed from her face as the energy swelled into her. She could only manage to focus enough to down the rats, but even so, it was a start. She put her father's notes away, fed the dead rats to the cats that constantly prowled the courtyards outside her window and washed her face and changed her clothes. Renewed, and with a new sense of personal pride, she went to meet her class for breakfast.
As with each morning for weeks, the other student hushed when she came into their presence. Their eyes followed her quietly and she approached them, which was less and less, they fell quiet and greeted her with awkward smiles. She detested pity. Their concerns were misdirected. She slowed her pace, watching the gaggle of them as they moved in a group toward the grand arch of the main hall. She furrowed her brow. The thought of their company soured her stomach. Perhaps, she decided, she would breakfast elsewhere this morning. The city was brilliant in the morning. Sunlight fell on the golden trim of every arch and door, every winding stair. White marble rose as if it had grown there naturally. Cercee walked from the Arcanum to a little residential quarter where she knew most of the school menials lived. Even here, the streets were clean and the walls bright and gleaming in the sun. And the shadows, she noticed the shadows, in contrast seemed darker and crisper. She slowed her pace to study them. A broom swept past her. She shook her head as she watched it sweep into the darkness and disappear down the alley. Her musings thus broken, she continued to the bakery around the corner. It was not unusual for students to frequent the little shop and so the baker smiled at her as she entered.
"Not interested in the normal gruel?" he asked.
Cercee grinned in spite of herself. "It isn't that bad," she said, taking in the counter and all it had to offer.
"Of course it is," he said with exaggerated disgust, "my brother is one of your cooks." He waved a hand in front of his face and grabbed his stomach as if he were in pain.
Cercee laughed outright.
"What can I get for you?" he asked.
"I just wanted something different," she said.
"Something different," he mused. "Different from what you have everyday or different than anyone around here could get you."
The phrase struck her and her bright green eyes widened slightly. "Different than anyone around here can get me," she said.
"Well then," he said, pleased that his pastry could elicit such a response, "I'll be right back."
Cercee barely heard him. That was what she wanted, what they needed. What her parents had neglected.
A more purposeful intent rode on Cercee's stride as she walked back to the school. Doubt had been banished from her mind. She was almost cheerful as she skipped up the long flight of steps to the main hall. The other students nearly gasped when she smiled at them as she slid into her seat. With new vigilance and resolve she animated her quill and prepared to give her instructor absolute attention. Her instructors took notice. Pleased that their concerns had been taken to heart and not without some measure of compassion for her current situation, they continued on. That day flew by, and the night was equally instructive, following her father's notes and practicing the most basic spells that engaged fel energy. Exhausted but elated, she finished her self instruction, cleaned her room, bathed quickly and went once more to the baker's.
"Back again?" the cheery baker chimed when he saw her.
"Have you any more?" she asked quickly.
"No, I'm sorry, not of the same you had yesterday," he saw the very slight frown that pulled at the corners of her mouth. "But perhaps I can find something you will like." He disappeared for a few moments and reemerged dramatically with a small purple cake delicately topped with flower pedals.
"That's lovely," she said.
"Thank you, m'lady," he bowed grandly and smiled. "Now, do be mindful," he cautioned, "those little pedals make this an excellent breakfast cake, so if you intend to go back to bed, save the cake for later."
"I have class," she said examining the cake.
"Perfect ," he said. "let me know how it goes." And she paid for her cake and left for class.
Thaxeus watched the younger students enter the halls from the balcony of his chamber. He would have few, if any of these aspirants as his own students. Most would quit or be deemed unworthy by then. A few would pass on, then find positions in noble houses, but rarely did anyone attain a level of mastery that he himself would take an interest in. Bailas Morningray had, and he had been the last. The deaths of Bailas, his wife and the other magi who had left Quell'Thallas to defend against the Horde were a shock. Secretly, no one had expected the Horde's brutish magics to have anything even half as potent as the Arcanum's contribution to the conflict. They were still looking into the matter, to find out what had really happened. Thaxeus himself was sure an ambush had been laid, treachery of some kind. No one, he felt sure, could have taken the magi had they been prepared. He watched another group of students, older, more relaxed, begin to form near the gates. He did not see Bailas's daughter's red hair bobbing among them. Not that she ever bobbed, exactly. That might imply she had any kind of a jovial bone in her body.
Too much her father's daughter for that, he thought. All business, that one.
He did finally see her, walking alone behind the others. His heart went out to her. The war had made many orphans, but the Morningray family was small. She had no siblings, her father had been all business as well, apparently, and as far as he knew there was only a few extended family on the mother's side in Quel'Danas. She was likely lonely in her grief. He watched her as she fell farther behind the others until she stopped entirely, looked down a side ally and went off down a fork in the other direction.
He frowned. He watched her until the buildings obscured his view and then left the balcony. He wrapped a cloak around his shoulders and decided a walk might do him some good as well.
