Tortall, its people, places, divinities, histories, environs, and all contained therein are the copyright property of Tamora Pierce.

"To try with it, as with an enemy,
That had before my face murder'd my father -
The quarrel of a true inheritor."

-Second Part of Henry IV; IV.iv.166

"Before our father's time, you were kept to the Mithran cloisters under the religious rule. It was intended that, in giving you the freedom to order yourselves, and in giving you freely the guardianship of the oldest and most dangerous texts, you, the most knowledgable of their uses and misuses, would best serve yourselves of them in both the advancement of knowledge and duty to the Crown. This has been, evidently, a mistaken assumption. Unhindered by outside constraints, you have run wild, and to disastrous consequences."

Silence greeted the king's speech. Numair Salmalín shifted uneasily in his seat. He knew Roald of Conté well, having watched him grow up, and having been his teacher at one time. The king was not given to pettiness and personal revenge. He would never use his power, whether temporal or magical, wantonly or arbitrarily. He was a rational and temperate man, to the point of being considered by some hampered by an unwillingness to offend. Even now, he was most certainly in full control of his faculties, in spite of his thinly veiled rage. Salmalín had always recognized that Roald could be much more terrible than he sometimes appeared, and he was now very sure that he did not ever want to be the object of this king's ire, particularly not if that ire were in the least bit justified. Unfortunately, he and all his fellow mages at the University most certainly were, and it most certainly was.

It was true that there was little oversight in the University. Students and professors did their research, worked on their projects, and the libraries were open to all. Of course, student projects did have to be approved by one's advisor, and, for Mastery, by the Dean himself. It wasn't as though there was no regulation at all. Just very little regulation. But after all, how was he, or anyone, supposed to have known that some brilliant, demented, young fool would actually raise the ghost of that damned black-magician Roger of Conté? Except, of course, that another brilliant, demented, young fool of the same name and lineage had done it a generation earlier. It would have been ridiculous - fodder for a players' piece - if the consequences hadn't been so dire, if Roger-Thom hadn't killed King Jonathan, and if he himself hadn't spent the past 30 or so hours frantically and increasingly sleeplessly trying to cage him in, for example. And he would be much less nervous if he hadn't been Thom of Pirates' Swoop's advisor, if he and Harailt hadn't enthusiastically approved Thom's forays into power transfers and necromantic residuals, if he hadn't only a week ago proposed that Thom be given Mastery early for his paper on the Sorcerous Sleep …

"Your Majesty may be assured," his frail colleague Lindhall Reed was saying, "that we will closely examine our curricula and methods of instruction."

He thanked the gods that he had never been very tempted by the prospects of death-magic. Daine had shown him - continued to show him every day, in fact - that life, and its diversity of magics, was far more wonderful and intricate. But there were many who were interested in death. Galina Fletcher had gone farther into it than even Thom, and she hadn't Raised anyone. Yet, he reminded himself gloomily. Thom had seemed perfectly innocuous too. Poor Galina: even had she no intentions of doing anything beyond the theoretical, she would never be allowed to continue her research now.

As Reed elaborated, Salmalín gazed at the men and women standing just behind the king. They were, for the most part, mages of the court, not associated directly with the University, but no less powerful for that. Late last night, (or was it early this morning?) they had been working frantically in tandem, with the easy camaraderie that is born of urgency and old friendship, and that comes of finally seeing success in the distance. Now, though, they seemed to be on opposite sides. They were solidly with the king, and he, he had somehow become the Other, the same unrestrained danger that had spawned that which they had been fighting together. He caught Lady Yukimi's eye as she stood rigidly beside her husband. (All of them, in fact, were standing rather rigidly, carefully masking their exhaustion behind faces of grief and upright duty.) There was no hint of the old friendliness that had existed between the two of them as she had explained Yamani magics to him in the look she gave now. In her homeland, he realized suddenly, he would probably be dead. He didn't think that Roald would dare execute the greatest mage in his service, or indeed, anyone, without very good reason. He did expect, however, a severe royal dressing down at the least, and probably another chastisement from Harailt as well. Would he even be permitted to teach again? He realized that the king was speaking once more.

"For these reasons, we revoke your Charter and place you under the direct oversight of the Crown." He ought to have known - they all ought to have known - that it would never last. No other monarch allowed the mages under his patronage so much latitude. It was disappointing, nonetheless.

Lindhall Reed raised a timid hand. "Will the Mages' Charter be ever reinstated by Your Majesty?" He asked, once acknowledged. "And what may we do to hasten that event?"

"When we have the assurances of your loyalty and competence in administering yourselves that we deem sufficient, we will consider the granting of new charter."

Which, as far as Salmalín understood it, was no answer at all.

"Master Salmalín, my Lord of Aili, attend us please." Roald paused only a moment to catch the eyes of a few of his nobles; these, with the Queen Dowager and Princess Shinkokami, followed their monarch's abrupt exit through a private door. The rest, whether from the Court or the University, trickled out more quickly than was their usual wont. Harailt of Aili, the Dean of the University, touched his colleague on the arm.

"Well, into the lion's den, I suppose." He received no answer. "Come, Numair, no one blames you. Certainly, you've discharged any debt you might have owed with your work yesterday and today. It's a damned shame His Majesty revoked your Charter." Harailt always talked too much when he was nervous.

As the Chair of the College of Mages, Salmalín knew he ought to be indignant over the loss of his department's autonomy. He would have been, had the king acted alone and without cause. But most of the Powers of Tortall were standing with him: Myles of Olau, Baird of Queenscove, Edelmar of Ybor, Vanget haMinch, Imrah of Legann, Gareth of Naxen, Gareth the Younger, and many others. Only Alanna the Lioness and Raoul of Goldenlake were absent. What was the use of indignance under such circumstances? Sir Myles might have protested for academic freedom - and probably had - but the others were solidly with the king. "It wasn't unexpected. He might have taken it from the whole University."

"There would have been an outcry if he had. But the king's a reasonable man and a just."

His companion grunted a pensive assent. It was very strange, Salmalín reflected as they passed through the doorway, how easy it was to talk about "the king." It was as if Roald had always reigned, or, more likely, as if Jonathan still did. Roald was very like his father now: the clear blue eyes and dark hair, the tall, proud bearing, the aura of power and authority that he had seemed to lack when he was simply the heir apparent. It was very easy to forget that he wasn't Jonathan. Or, perhaps, that was simply the way of kings: that they all ran together into one distant figure.

That one figure looked at him sternly now. "I understand that you were successful in subduing him, Numair?"

"Yes, Majesty. Any magic he tries to use against our barrier will only be absorbed into it, and thus make it stronger. We couldn't, however, separate the two… We couldn't separate the ghost of Roger of Conte from the, well, the ghost, if you will, of Thom. Now that he no longer an immediate problem, I will do my best to find a way to do so. With Your Majesty's permission," he added ironically.

Roald ignored the gentle sarcasm; only a slight roll of his eyes indicated that he had caught it. "That seems a reasonable plan. Have you anything to add, Harailt?" The dean shook his head. "Duke Baird?"

"If I may, my liege." The old Chief Healer was one of the few powerful mages who had not been in on the working, though he had replenished all of their strengths multiple times over its course. "How long will your barrier hold, Master Numair?"

"Theoretically, of course, it should last indefinately. Practically, however, I should suggest that we deal with the, ah, the greater problem as soon as we are able."

The king nodded. "Uncle Gareth?"

The elderly duke shook his head. "This is all beyond my small knowledge of magic."

"Mother?"

The Queen Dowager said nothing, but her eyes remained coldly fixed on Salmalín. Had he no more friends at Court? Was one instance of gross stupidity, one mistake, enough to destroy him in all of their eyes? Well, yes, he answered himself, if that one mistake ended in the king's death. What he wouldn't give to be able to go back and do it over - what anyone of them wouldn't give, he supposed. But there was no going back and no fixing, and now they all believed him to be reckless and over-zealous in the pursuit of knowledge, someone who cared more for the unraveling of the darkest secrets of the gods than for the good of society.

That, at least, he had to fix now. He could not spend the rest of his career gradually winning back their trust. And if he could not work freely here - Carthak was the only other place with such facilities and libraries. Emperor Kaddar's new policies of openness notwithstanding, he could not bear a return to stifling Carthaki ceremonies of deference. Too, he remembered suddenly, Kalasin of Conté was empress there. If he could not face her brother, he would not be able to face her, either. And Daine would never agree to live somewhere where neither humans nor animals could be sure of freedom. Moreover, he didn't want to leave Tortall. He liked and respected Roald; he had many friends here. He was happy, or, would be happy if he could regain a place in their eyes. Slowly, he knelt.

"Please forgive me, Majesty; I beg you." He didn't dare look to see if their expressions had changed. On the periphery of his vision, he could see Harailt kneeling with him.

"Truly, Sire. You spoke rightly: more vigilance on our part could have prevented this." If any of the younger scholars had were here, Salmal�n thought, they would be furious. But there were limits; one had to abase onesself sometimes, had to affirm certain things in order to keep in favor with one's noble masters. Not that he didn't mean what he said: the ability to tell whether a man spoke from his heart or no was common; he had trained Roald in it himself.

"I ought to have been more attentive. I don't know that Your Majesty can pardon my fault, but I am sorry for it. If there is anything that is required of me, as restitution… or as penance…" He did mean it, even as he devoutly hoped that his life would not be required.

"There is no restitution you can make that will bring my father back." The king's words caught a little in his throat, but they were slow and measured; they did not give a hint of either pardon or condemnation. "And you have done everything - and express willingness to continue to do everything - within your powers to see justice done on his murderer. I cannot ask anything more of you." He motioned for the two mages to rise.

"But can you forgive me, Roald?" Salmalín whispered, chancing the familiarity as he caught his king's hand. "Can you ever forgive me?"

The kingly façade softened a little into that of a young man with far too many burdens for his years. "I know that you are not to blame, and I belive that I can trust you." His voice was raised a little, so that the entire room could hear. He added, more softly, "and I can try to forgive."

And that, Salmalín realized, was as much as he could hope for. Gods protect him when the Lioness arrived.


REVISED 1-3-05: altered the dialogue between Roald and Numair

REVISED 26-4-04