...derived from Old Thak, the utterance of this word will create a bridge between two separate places in the same moment. Physical distance seems to have no impact on the word and select mages have been able to use it to send objects into Oblivion.
Only one mage, Master Larees Larain, was able to use the word to send a living being into the Divine Realm. The amount of power required drained Master Larain's life force and resulted in her untimely death.
This type of direct consequence is not unlike Master Proten's use of the word for transformation to force an enemy mage into a cat-shape and the conversion became permanent. There is no way to predict how the misuse of a Word of Power might affect the order of the universe.
"Whatever you're reading must be fascinating."
Startled by the proximity of the gravely, majestic voice, I turn sharply and send my wayward elbow into a precariously stacked pile of priceless texts.
"Mithros, Minos, and Shaketh!" I curse as the tomes crash into another pile of books, creating a veritable avalanche of parchment and leather.
The unrepentant office intruder chuckles merrily, making the jade beads in his braided hair gently tap together like a wind chime.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Though to hear such language from someone so young is a travesty."
"I'll have you know that twenty is a perfectly adequate age to engage in casual cursing. Well, when the occasion calls for it." As if to prove my point, the chiming of a standing clock brings yet another curse to my lips. "Damnit it all! I'm late!"
Ozorne hauls me from my chair, a somewhat daunting task considering I am a full head taller than he is despite being two years younger, "If you miss another class, Cosmas is going to send you packing."
I wave away his concern with willowy fingers, "I know, I know, but I'm borrowing time at this point. It's just...so easy to lose track of the hour now that I have full access to the archives."
"The rest of us don't seem to have a problem, but then the rest of us moved on to better callings. You, my lanky friend, you HAD to stay at the university."
Rolling my eyes at the familiar argument, I gesture dramatically, "Despite my inability to keep time, I enjoy teaching. Besides, there's still so much to learn!"
"You're hopeless," he says with exasperation and moves carefully around the mess and toward the door, "I was coming to see if you would come to the banquet when the Sirajit delegation arrives. It promises to be splendid."
I stop mid-step in his wake but quickly recover before he wonders why I am not following him through the threshold, "Of course I'll be there."
He recognizes the overly cheerful note of my voice and passes me a sidelong look once I fall into step beside him, "I don't know what my uncle is thinking. Inviting those traitorous fools here is just asking for trouble."
"I'm sure the Emperor knows what he's doing," I say, trying to remain neutral in the face of Ozorne's residual hatred for the Sirajit people.
"When I'm Emperor, Siraj will be a province of Carthak again. They don't deserve their freedom."
I clap him on the shoulder, my long hand on his thin shoulder creating a strange contrast, "So, what is it about this banquet that makes you think it will be 'splendid'?"
Ozorne shrugs, dislodging my hand without meaning to, "Varice was the one who said it was going to be great. After everything I've seen her do, I've given up doubting her."
"I gave up doubting her a long time ago," I reply with a note of softness to my voice. The tone I only use when speaking of her.
Ozorne makes a rude noise in the back of his throat, "You two are too adorable for words. It gives me indigestion."
"Has Varice told you about the ginger-infused potion recipe I gave to her? It's supposed to work wonders on-"
Holding up a hand, he passes me a bored expression, "Save it for your students. I think I received enough of your random instruction during my time as your roommate. Sometimes I wonder if being forced to move back to the palace wasn't the gods' blessing in disguise."
I smirk at him and wave my hand in a mocking bow, "As his Highness wishes, I will speak no more of my mundane remedies for stomach ailments."
He rolls his eyes in my direction, "I'm going to hold you to that, you fool."
We come to a stop in front of the classroom I was supposed to have been at fifteen minutes before. I expect to hear the riotous laughter of students enjoying their teacher's absence. Instead, I hear only silence.
Frowning, I glance at Ozorne but he is as puzzled as I am. As former students, we knew there was no better time to engage in hijinx than when a teacher didn't arrive to class.
"Maybe your students are used to you being late?" Ozorne offers but I shake my head and push open the door.
Sitting in the desk chair, Master Lindhall Reed's knowing blue eyes scan a room full of obedient student mages who are diligently writing in their notebooks.
"Master Lindhall," I say as I enter, bowing deeply to my mentor.
He smiles with closed lips, the expression providing a joke and an admonishment at the same time, "Ah, Master Arram. So good of you to join us. I hope you don't mind but, while I was waiting for you, I decided to quiz your students on their knowledge of protective circles. I found them to be so knowledgeable that I asked them about the Burning Man Theory. They seemed to be lacking in instruction on that particular subject, so they are trying to define it from the title alone. I told them you would demonstrate a working model of the theory if one of them guessed correctly."
There is a snicker from the doorway as I grimace, "Thank you for the addition to my lesson plan, Master."
The man does not acknowledge my obvious sarcasm and bows his head genially, "You are most welcome. Shall we see what answers they have given?"
Turning toward the class, Lindhall waves his large hand and the ink stops flowing from the students' quills. For a moment the mass of twelve and thirteen-year-olds seem confused but then they set their quills aside and wait for instruction.
I point toward a boy with chubby cheeks and round eyes, "Gissom. Let's hear your answer first."
His massive head rolls across his shoulders like a boulder before he stands and clears his throat, "Um, well. I read in the library that the Burning Man Theory has to do with breaking wards."
Lindhall nods slowly, "Very good, but do you know how?"
Gissom shakes his head and Lindhall indicates that he should sit. The boy does so immediately, ducking his head in shame though he has no reason to.
"Does anyone know the answer to Master Lindhall's question?" I ask the class as a whole.
A hand so dark as to appear like an ebony branch is the only one to rise. I smile knowingly at the girl who sits with bifocals perched on her broad nose.
"Please enlighten us, Kara."
She stands, her thin body towering over even the tallest boys. "I surmised that The Burning Man Theory comes from the combustion theory by the same name. The physics behind it is that a controlled explosion robs a fire of the oxygen required to keep burning. In magic, the theory could mean that any spell can be broken with enough power. Though I doubt the theory can be proven one-hundred-percent accurate because even the mightiest mages cannot command enough power to break more complex spells such as Words of Power."
Lindhall grins, "Excellent, young lady. Well done." Turning to me, the mage smirks, "Well, your students have kept up their end of the bargain, Master Arram."
I curse under my breath, causing some of the closer students to stifle giggles.
"I believe that because Kara guessed correctly, that she should be the one to come to the front of the room and draw the most powerful protective circle she can," says Lindhall.
Kara pushes her glasses up her nose as she strides toward the front of the classroom and begins drawing a warding spell in a circle of frosted green magic. Once it is complete, she stands back and watches with inquisitive eyes.
"That is a very well-crafted circle," says Lindhall, "Now, can anyone tell me what would make this spell stronger?"
"A second mage," says Gissom, "Mingling magics always make spells harder to break."
"Your students are well-taught, Master Arram. Yes, my boy, mingling magics make spells stronger. Please, come up and demonstrate."
Gissom stands and sends his grass-colored gift toward the shield but it is arrested halfway by a tendril of grey magic.
"Wait, I have forgotten something. Have you been taught to make your magic compatible with another?" Lindhall asks Kara.
She nods, "It is already built into my spell."
"Wonderful," he replies and releases Gissom's magic to continue on its path.
Gissom's gift twists into Kera's shield, making it appear like an image of ocean currents as it swirls. When the spell is complete, Lindhall sends a ball of his magic at the shield but it bounces back into his waiting palm, "Excellently done. I daresay, Master Arram may have taught you all a little too well. That is a spell I cannot easily break."
"They are good students," I tell him and Gissom's lowered head rises pridefully while Kara looks impatient.
Lindhall gestures in my direction, both in acknowledgment and in a signal.
I take a deep breath and allow my magic to pool in my hand. I have to temper my power, using only a fourth of the amount Lindhall had thrown at it.
When my magic toúches the shield, it shatters like a pane of glass.
Kara smiles as she skips back to her seat and begins diligently scribbling in her notebook but the rest of my students stare at me in blatant disbelief.
"See?" says Master Lindhall, "Powerful magic can break even a strong spell. It is a lesson that you would do well to remember as you continue your education."
"Yes, Master," the students chorus but they continue to stare at me. Some eyes have widened, fearful to know exactly how powerful their often absent-minded young teacher is.
"Wonderful. Then you are all dismissed. Enjoy a leisurely walk to your next class."
The students quickly gather their things and rush out the door, none of them noticing Ozorne leaning beside the door in their rush to escape.
A brilliant smile lights Ozorne's face as he pushes away from the wall to stand beside Master Lindhall and I. "That was extremely entertaining. I doubt your students will ever misbehave again."
Lindhall smiles at Ozorne, "Forgive me, my prince. Were you hoping to assist Master Arram as well?"
"Only by trying to make sure he gets to his classes on time, Master," says Ozorne, deferentially bowing to the man. If anyone in the royal family had seen him, he would have been verbally lashed for showing respect to someone of a lower station but within the walls of the university for mages, there was no title above that of Mentor.
"A noble effort, Ozorne, but alas, I think our young Master Arram might be a lost cause."
"Your faith means the world to me," I drawl and both Ozorne and Lindhall chuckle.
Lindhall pats Ozorne on the arm in a fatherly gesture, "It really is wonderful to see you again, my boy, but I'm afraid I must speak with Arram alone."
Nodding, Ozorne turns on his heels to start down the hall, "I really should be getting back to the palace anyway. I'll see you soon, Arram."
Once he is out of sight, Lindhall lets out a long sigh and, for a moment, the sparkle in his eyes disappears behind a flickering shadow.
"Is something wrong?"
"Not wrong per se," he replies, "The Council of Mages is sending a representative to assess you for promotion to Black Robe."
I furrow my brow, "But I told Master Cosmas I didn't want to take the test."
"Someone has been whispering in the council's ears, so I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice. If you can demonstrate the esoteric magics, they will award you Black Robe status. With that will come all the privileges, and responsibilities afforded only the most powerful mages."
I shake my head in a mingling of shock and denial, "I don't understand. What makes me worthy of such special treatment?"
As if to answer my question, my magic begins to react to my nervousness, rising to buzz just beneath my skin. Taking a steadying breath, I repress it and the dark mass slithers back like an admonished pet.
Lindhall comes to stand before me, placing a supportive hand on my shoulder, "Your innate modesty is one of your most endearing qualities but it is completely unwarranted. I have met many black robe mages and, yet, I have never met someone as powerful as you."
"But what if I hurt someone?" I ask quietly, getting to the crux of my fear, "The final test is to speak a Word of Power. Uncontrolled, they can cause untold damage to the world."
Patting me on the arm in the same manner he had Ozorne, he says, "Others will be on hand to keep potential repercussions to a minimum but you cannot hide forever, Arram. The gods would not have given you such a gift without reason."
"I suppose you're right," I say but the words hold little truth, "Well, I best revise my lesson plans for tomorrow. I had planned to start teaching my students about rebounding offensive spells later but I believe it would behoove them to learn it now. They seemed unnerved by today's demonstration."
"Today's lesson was not just for your students' benefit. Eventually, you will need to learn to forgive the fear in other's eyes."
"That is easier said than done," I say as I turn away, leaving a mournful-looking Lindhall in my wake.
I return to my office at the university and find a letter tucked into the space between the door and the jam.
Frowning, I pluck it from its home and read words written in a neat, albeit grammatically simple, hand.
The letter is distant and impersonal as it tells me my father was lost at sea. There is nothing to bury and therefore no reason to make the journey to Tyra for a funeral.
I know my mother loves me, that she loved my father in her own way, but she has long since accepted that my life as a mage is far removed from the small world of textile trade, the only world she has ever known.
Something inside me cracks and my magic rises around me like a vortex, swirling around me even as my often-busy mind goes blank. There is a vague awareness of something crunching beneath my boots as I walk but I don't know where I'm going until I find myself standing in the palace kitchens.
A young woman stands there alone, stirring something that smells faintly of greens and meat. The fire beneath the large pot flares and she snatches her hands away from the flames before they can damage her creamy skin.
Varice's head swivels toward me, the motion pulling locks of platinum hair from their pins. "Arram?"
Something about me has her extinguishing the fire with a gesture and moving the pot away from the heat of the burner. Setting it on a reed mat, she abandons her cooking in favor of coming to stand before me. "You need to calm down. Your magic is going rampant."
I shake my head and it is all she needs to see. With a curse, she whispers the spell I taught her almost a year ago. Powder-blue magic encloses me and I feel my gift collapse into my chest. I gasp at the pain as she cups my cheek, trying to soothe me. "Arram? Are you alright?"
Regaining my breath, I hold out the crumpled and singed letter as an answer. Taking the piece of parchment with hesitant hands, she scans the words. I cannot connect with the tears that sparkle in her round, blue, eyes as she meets my unblinking gaze. Without a word she takes my hand and pulls me through the palace.
Murals of blood-soaked victories become blurs as I blindly follow her down the maze of hallways and through the door of a small but richly decorated room.
Like a mother tending to a child, she undoes the clasps of my robe and lets it falls to the floor. Before long, I am laying with my head in her lap as her fingers gently comb through my inky curls.
Each motion is a new crack in the walls around me until I can finally feel my throat tighten with tears.
"Thank you," I murmur long after the sun has set and my emotional well has run dry.
Her hand stops mid-motion, "Don't thank me. I hate using that spell on you."
"I know. I'm sorry."
There is a short pause as she absently twists a tendril of my hair around her finger. "You know I love you, right?"
"I know. That's why I have to thank you."
"No, that's why you should tell me that you love me as well."
"I do."
"I know."
When I awake in the morning, Varice is no longer beside me but a small breakfast is laid out on the table near the window. A note from her accompanies a drafted letter to my mother. It is almost as impersonal as her's had been but includes a promissory note for the Tyran Bank. It isn't for an exorbitant amount but more than enough to assure Patel can step into my father's shoes without fear for the family's future.
Varice has thought of everything.
After signing the letter and dropping it in the pigeon master's basket, I walk to the Black God's temple. As I kneel before the black marble veined with silver, a hand falls on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Ozorne says quietly.
"Thank you, but I'll be alright," I tell him, though my monotone belies the words.
He kneels beside me, lighting incense to my father's memory, "You can't lie to me. I know how much losing your father hurts."
"It's not the same," I say, my voice alien to my ears, "I can't hate the ocean for taking my father from me."
"No, I suppose you can't."
