The wizard stood as if frozen to the spot - only when the guard tactfully withdrew did he stir, shaking his head as though rousing himself from a trance.
"Please, sit down." Suiting actions to words, Arren lowered himself onto the rug in front of the fire. It was a tactic he often used to put people at their ease - not wishing to elevate themselves above the King, they would have to join him on the floor, where formality was hard. Indeed, after looking round nervously for a moment, Kell sat down on the other side of the fireplace, crossing his legs and removing his grey robe. Underneath he wore a simple blue shirt and black trousers that accentuated his slender form and long legs.
He cannot be older than seventeen, thought Arren, and then almost laughed aloud. Here he was, only eighteen years old himself, questioning the Masters of Roke for sending him a wizard barely younger than he was.
"How was the journey from Roke? I hear the sea was rough," he said, poking at the faltering fire with a stick, keeping one eye on Kell. The young wizard shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat before answering.
"No more so than usual, my lord. The world's wind was kind where the magewind failed."
This last was said self-deprecatingly, and Arren shot his visitor a glance. The boy looked tired and angry with himself - and what was that about the magewind failing?
He tried another tack. "And how is the school of Roke?"
At that Kell winced and looked away. "Not well, my lord. It seems the Masters cannot agree on anything any more."
"Oh?" Arren leaned forward, catching and holding Kell's eye, willing him to say more.
"Yes, my lord." The wizard's gaze flickered briefly to the floor, then back up as if he had made the decision to carry on talking. "The Master Summoner sits in the Great House and the Master Patterner in the Immanent Grove, and neither will speak to the other. The School still teaches, but the Masters argue over everything - who is to be the new Archmage, who are to be made wizards and sorcerers this year, who shall be sent where and on what errand." He smiled ruefully. "I myself am here because of one such argument. The Master Patterner asserted that a wizard must be sent to Havnor to aid the King; the Summoner decreed that it was not Roke's place to rule or to interfere with the ruling of the Archipelago. The Patterner said that the King must have advisors; the Summoner invited him to go himself if he so desired. And so at last I was chosen - a hollow victory for the Master Patterner." He spread his hands helplessly. "The Summoner chose me because I am too young and too unskilled to be of any use."
"But you are a wizard."
Again the rueful smile. Kell fingered the neck of his discarded cloak - which Arren saw with a shock was fastened not with the silver clasp of a sorcerer but with a simple leather thong.
Following his gaze, Kell nodded sadly. "A wizard, but no sorcerer. You see, my lord, to be a sorcerer one must have at least some talent in all the areas of magery. I have no gift for weatherworking, none for healing, and I have no voice or memory for songs. All nine Masters must consent for an apprentice to be made sorcerer, and neither Windkey nor Chanter nor Herbal could support me with my paltry gifts."
Arren was incredulous. "If your gifts are so paltry, then how did you come by your staff?"
For the first time there was true warmth in Kell's smile. "The Master Patterner took me in. He taught me himself, in the Immanent Grove, all that I needed to know to become a mage. Only four strong gifts are necessary to be made a wizard, and the Patterner taught me illusion, naming, shape-changing and his own art, that of seeing patterns in the world where others see only chaos." Kell's eyes misted over with the faraway look of one remembering happier times. "Mages talk of the Balance, of Equilibrium, but only the Patterner can see that of which the others speak."
He shook himself like a dog, then looked back at Arren. "Even this was contested by the Master Summoner. He claimed that the Patterner had forged my patterning Gift, since only he could sense it. In return," his lips curved upward, "the Master Patterner taught me everything he could of the Summoner's own Art. Without his help, his guidance, I would never have become a mage."
Arren sat back, pleased with at how relaxed Kell had become, but disturbed by these tales of unrest among the Wise. "You said the Summoner chose you, and yet this letter," he turned the parchment over in his hands, "is written by the Patterner."
Kell shook his head slowly. "The Summoner bade me go; the Patterner sent me on my way. If any chose me, it was the Master Doorkeeper - though the heavens only know why. He came to me weeks before I was sent and told me that I would be leaving Roke within the month. I asked him what he meant, but he would not say." He shrugged helplessly. "Why he chose me, I do not know."
Arren smiled. "The Master Doorkeeper does little without reason."

Kell was finding it hard to keep his anguish in check. "But why me? I am so young..."
At that the king laughed, lightly and easily. "Then that makes two of us! At least you were trained - I was taken from Enlad and deposited in Havnor with barely five minutes' warning! An eighteen-year-old son of an island prince to rule the Archipelago!"
Kell said nothing, thinking that the king had done more than he could hope to even if he studied night and day in the Immanent Grove for another two years.
Serious once more, the king fixed him with a solemn look. "So. You have been sent here as my court wizard."
Kell blushed. "I'll serve you as far as I am able, my lord."
"Good." Getting gracefully to his feet, the king paced over to the window and looked out to the west, towards the setting sun. "What do you know about Paln?"
Kell was already dredging frantically through his memory before he realised what the truthful answer would be. "Very little, my lord."
The king chuckled. "A good answer. For who does know much about Paln? It is an aloof land, cut off from its neighbours, refusing to acknowledge my kingship. What do you think I should do?"
After a moment's thought, Kell ventured an answer. "Sire...no land can survive alone. Every island, even Roke, must trade with other lands. If Paln's chief trading partner were to gently remind them that they are, for better or worse, part of the Archipelago, they might decide to recognise the Archipelagan government."
The king spun round, his face lighting up. "Exactly! If they will not listen to me, perhaps they will to others." He clapped Kell on the shoulder. "You will make a fine advisor."

To Kell, though the routine of the following days was much the same, the content was very different. The king heard grievances referred to him from the courts of Havnor, and sometimes from other lands, and would give judgement. He often asked Kell's advice, and often took it. Then there were meetings of the Inner Council, with Kell the honorary thirty-first member. They debated matters of state such as taxation, relations with the Kargad Empire and the situation in the various Reaches; when disagreements arose, the king could be overruled as often as he triumphed. Though Kell knew little of the Kargad Empire or the Reaches, he found it easy to weigh up both sides of any debate, and was frequently called upon by the king to sum up a discussion.
All this exhilarated Kell - to be such an integral part of these discussions, these far-reaching decisions, appealed to both the wizard and the youth in him. He always came out energised, feeling that he had played his part, however small.
And yet, and yet...whenever he cast a sideways glance at the king, he was appalled at how tired the young man looked. As the day wore on he appeared more and more tired, until by late evening he was pale and drawn and completely drained. With no more than a perfunctory good-night, the king would retire to his rooms, to try and recoup the energy he had ploughed into ruling a vast and fragmentary kingdom.

One night, however, there was a knock at Kell's door. Absent-mindedly, he twirled a finger, and the door creaked open.
More than half the palace rebuilt and none of the doors oiled, he thought ruefully, running a hand through his hair.
"Um..."
Kell snapped upright, dropping his book, and in his haste accidentally snuffed the ball of werelight floating above his head. His eyes blurred with after-images and he blinked in the dim candlelight, trying to get his vision back.
When his eyes finally cleared, he smiled apologetically up at the king. "Sorry, my lord. Force of habit."
The king smiled back tiredly. "Doors opening by themselves is the least of my worries. Hosk has failed."
Kell sat forward, his face full of concern. "Paln didn't respond?"
The king lowered himself onto the floor, landing with a thud and an exhausted sigh. "Not only did they not respond, they did not even allow him to land. The Lord's ship was driven back almost onto a reef by a wind that sprang up from nowhere. The ship's weatherworker was quite at a loss to explain it, but he suspects magery."
Kell shook his head in disbelief. "Mages? On Paln? None from Roke have gone there to serve in years. The Court of Paln has never requested any wizard from the School, and we have sent none."
"Nevertheless," the king mused, "the Lord of Hosk assures me that this wind was mageborn. What can you see?"
This was an allusion to another of Kell's unusual talents - he had an exceptional, if sometimes unreliable, gift of farsightedness. He now invoked it, closing his eyes and stretching out both hands, palm down, in front of him.
"Clear skies over Havnor, but clouds rushing in from the west," he murmured, extending his awareness outward. "A veil is over Paln tonight - a mist covers it, and I cannot see through it."

Arren sighed, and then was gripped by a terrible longing. "Forget Paln," he urged, suddenly impulsive. "What do you see to the north-east?"
Kell's forehead furrowed for a second, then smoothed again. "Rain over Oranea and Barnisk, and cloud down on Gont," the wizard said, so low that he was almost whispering.
Arren was completely spellbound. "Closer," he begged. "Tell me more of Gont."
"A storm hangs over the mountain's peak; the sea is rough, and rain pours down upon the villages."
"Do you see a little village, on the shoulder of the mountain?" Arren asked, his voice almost pleading. "And a farm a little higher still?"
Kell's face bore an expression of intense concentration. "...Yes."
"Can you see inside?"
The wizard's voice was showing signs of strain. "I see...a man, sitting at a table, drinking water from a rough clay cup. He looks tired and worn, but there is great strength in him..." His eyes snapped open, wide with surprise; his hands fell back to his sides, the spell forgotten. "It is the Archmage, Lord Sparrowhawk!"
Arren hung his head in shame. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to use your talents so frivolously."
"Why did you want to see him?" Kell's eyes held his; he could not avoid the question.
"Because every night I see the dark land where he led me," Arren replied heavily. "In my dreams I retrace our steps, over that low wall of stones into the Dry Land; only he is not there to guide me. I followed him because he was my lord, and I loved him, but when I dream there is nothing. No-one to follow, and no-one to lead me back."

Abruptly, the king shook his head. "Tell me of your homeland, Kell. Tell me of the green fields of Ilien."
Kell looked out of the north-facing window, his eyes unseeing. "My mind is not with Ilien tonight, my lord, but with the land of my mother. The northernmost isle of Enwas, far to the north of here. It is a cold land, where little grows; there, life is hard, an unending struggle to survive. Yet the spirit of the people is strong and virtuous, and it broke my mother's heart to leave them."
"Why did she?" The king's face was sympathetic in the warm candlelight.
"She was taken by a slave-trader, who saw profit in the fair hair and blue eyes of the northern folk." Kell smiled wanly. "Though I have my father's eyes, my mother gave me her golden hair - and her memories of home."
He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I am sorry, my lord. You came to me for comfort, and I offer none. What can I do for you?"
The king touched a hand to his forehead. "I have not slept well for three nights. Whenever I close my eyes it is the same dream, the Dry Land. If I could only sleep one whole night..."
Kell spread his hands. "I wish I could help. I'm afraid I am no healer. Even simple sleep-charms have little effect when I try them." He shrugged helplessly. "You'd be better with a village witch, my lord."
The king sighed. "No matter. You already do more than enough for me, and I'm grateful for that. Good night."
"Good night, my lord."
As he watched the king depart, an idea began to form in the back of Kell's mind. I cannot cure him by magic, but perhaps by magic I can comfort him...
The words of the Changing Spell came quickly and easily to his lips. Taking his staff in both hands, he held it out in front of him, drawing power from it to effect the Change.
A mist spread throughout the room, emanating from no discernible source; when it cleared, a small silver tabby cat jumped lightly down from the bed and padded out into the corridor.

Arren sat with his face turned to the open window, the night breeze cooling the heat from his cheeks. With the failure of Hosk, and the possibility of magic at work on Paln, the situation has become infinitely more complex.
He ran a hand tiredly through his hair, then shut the window and turned away. His bed looked at him accusingly, but he couldn't face the Dry Land, not yet. Instead, he poured himself a cup of wine and sat by the fire, sipping slowly and letting the warmth suffuse his weary body.
Mages on Paln again, after so long. Ged said that the mageblood of Paln had all but died out - that Cob was one of the few who still practiced its brand of magic. Yet the Lord of Hosk swears that magic was at work on the Sea of Paln, and his best weatherworker could not outdo it. What does it all mean?
He sighed, letting his head fall back against the cold stone wall. Every muscle in his body felt overused, overstretched, exhausted. His mind was dull, his thoughts sluggish; sleep was creeping up on him.
Not the Dry Land again. It haunts my dreams - those empty streets where lovers pass as though they never met, those silent towns where brothers do not speak and friends do not know each other. I stand at the crossroads and see faces I know - my mother, father, sisters, brothers, friends - and I call to them, but they turn away and do not meet my eyes. I reach out to them and they walk on by, oblivious…
The sound of the door opening roused him from his half-slumber, and a small tabby cat padded into the room on noiseless paws. He wasn't unduly surprised - the kitchens kept cats to kill vermin, and every now and then one of them would go on a wander through the palace.
"Hey there, little one! What're you doing here?"

Kell walked over to the king, still trying to get used to the sensation of having four legs instead of two. He mewed, then climbed onto the king's knee and began to wash himself.
"There now, make yourself at home," the king chuckled, tickling him gently behind the ears. Kell purred, licking the king's fingers; the young man smiled and ran a hand along the length of his spine.
"Have you run away from the kitchens, little one? You must be clever, to have found your way up here; we are a long way from the kitchens, aren't we?" Kell rolled over, presenting his stomach to the king, who ran his fingers through the curly fur. "You're a lovely one, then."
He yawned and stretched, almost dislodging the cat from his knee. "I have to sleep now, little one. Go back to the kitchens and hunt mice; don't concern yourself with me."
Kell stepped lightly down off the young man's knee, now confident in his new form, but he did not leave as the king suggested. Instead he watched as the king pulled off his shirt, admiring the lithe body beneath, supple and golden in the candlelight. The trousers followed, and then he slipped between the sheets and laid his head on the pillow.
"Go on, visitor, go back where you came from," the king said gently. Ignoring him, Kell leapt up onto the bed, rubbing himself against a bare shoulder and purring loudly. The king laughed delightedly, curling an arm around him and stroking his head.
"Well now! Here's a Faithful Companion. Are you going to make sure no-one tries to murder me in my bed?"
By way of response, Kell stuck out his tongue and licked the tip of the king's nose, making him chuckle again.
"All right, if you put it like that, you can stay. Just no snoring."
Kell curled himself up in the curve of the king's neck, feeling the steady thrumming of his pulse. Before long, his objective was achieved - the king had fallen into a deep sleep, beyond the reach of his disturbing dreams.

Arren woke, feeling refreshed for the first time in days. His sleep had been long and untroubled, and he now felt ready to face the ordeal of holding court.
He was still feeling energised when he went to his rooms at the end of the day - and again, when he was preparing for sleep, the little tabby cat came into his room, jumped onto the bed and curled up. Surprised by the creature's tenacity, Arren smiled to himself and went to sleep.
Every night the cat would appear, and every morning it would be gone. However, one morning Arren was woken by the little animal.

Kell awoke before dawn, and came to full consciousness almost instantly. He had remained in Changed form far longer than he had intended - a whole night - and that was dangerous. Too long, and the animal mind would subsume the human, leaving him trapped as a cat for the rest of his life.
Unsteadily, he got to his feet, disentangling himself from the king's dark hair. He jumped to the floor, landing heavily as feline instinct and human consciousness collided. How many legs did he have? Two? Four? He tried compromising on three, but this made his progress across the floor a lurching, drunken one.
Drunken. It was like being drunk. He could remember when he was little, and his father had given him a glass of wine which he had swallowed down too quickly. It was the same feeling - airy, light-headed, disoriented. His attention span was failing, and it was difficult to concentrate. With an effort, he brought the words of the reversal spell to mind, and held onto them as a drowning man to a log.
Thus occupied, he failed to notice that he had roused the king.

Arren opened his eyes in time to see the cat jump from the bed to the floor. He lifted his head from the pillow, watching it make its way across the floor.
"Hey, now! Where are you going?"
Something was wrong. Its movements weren't smooth - it stumbled, limping as though it had been injured. Quickly, Arren threw off his covers, shaking himself properly awake as he followed the stricken animal.
He reached the door in time to see it weaving down the corridor, but though he called and whistled the cat ignored him, plodding doggedly on despite its obvious distress.
Three strides and he was beside it, kneeling down to run a hand along its silken back. It did not stop or turn. He caught its head in both hands and turned it to face him; the eyes stared through him, unseeing.
What could he do? His doctors would be no help to a cat, and the only man in the Palace at all skilled with animals was the master of the stables. Perhaps Kell's magic would help...
Evidently the cat felt the same way, for when he released it, it nosed the door to the wizard's room open and went inside. Arren followed, intending to wake Kell and ask his advice.
He stopped short just inside the room. The wizard's bed was empty, and had not been slept in. Strangest of all, his staff, which a wizard never went anywhere without, was left lying on the end of the bed.
The cat leapt up onto the bed, scrabbling with its back legs to get its balance, then pushed its nose against the seemingly forgotten staff.
Arren shivered, feeling a coldness in the room. The air seemed suddenly hazy and bright, as though the moon was shining through a cloud; the haze thickened until he could barely see a thing, then abruptly cleared.
Where the little silver tabby had been, Kell now knelt on the bed, his fair hair in disarray and his clothes rumpled. He turned his head towards Arren, and the other stepped back with a gasp. For a second he was staring into slit-pupilled yellow eyes; then the wizard blinked, and his eyes were human again, holding a growing expression of dismay and horror.
"My lord...I...I..."
Arren stepped forward, cutting off the boy's stammering words; without speaking, he raised a hand to the wizard's head and ran his fingers gently through the tousled hair. Then he leaned closer, and placed a gentle kiss on Kell's lips.