Let us take leave of Thyssen, just as he is about to take that last step into the cellar, and shift our attention to the city of Oxenfurt several months thereafter. It is now late fall and the leaves have turned a beautiful, almost radiant, shade of brown. The sweltering heat of the summer is long past and the streets are full of gentility pompously strolling about. All but the beggars are dressed in their most elegant finery; this season's fashions run to puffy caftans and knee-high boots for the men, plumed hats along with wide-rimmed glasses for the women.
But the character on whom we now bestow our attention is blissfully unaware of all this. He barely knows what century it is outside, let alone what season; in fact, he has not left the grounds of the Oxenfurt Academy in some time. Between the dining hall to take his meals, his bed to sleep in and the library to do his work, he has found litle reason to venture elsewhere. It is here, among fellow scholars and mages, that he feels the most at home.
His name is Natan and he is formally known as Natan of Kerack. It is not a mellifluous name and he has sometimes daydreamed about having been born in a place like Loc Muinne or Aldersburg; sadly, there is little he can do about the matter now. Since we are all friends here, I will henceforth refer to him only by his given name.
We come to gaze upon him just as he is about to conclude a phase of his life (and hopefully begin another) for he is about to graduate with the high title of Master of the Magical Arts - provided, that is, he can pass the exit examination which is about to begin. He fidgets nervously, standing at a podium in front of his examiners as they wait for the last of their number to arrive. While they wait, reader, let you and I chat, for there is much I desire to make known before the questioning starts.
You have, of course, heard of the Oxenfurt School of Magic. Added to the Academy at the behest of Radovid the Stern, that renowned civilizer of the northern continent, it has since become the pre-eminent magical institution in the world, far eclipsing the older schools at Aretuza and Ban Ard. Yet as Natan is anxiously waiting on his examiners, this venerable institution is in its infancy, comprising barely two dozen instructors and half as many students. Its success is by no means assured and to some extent hinges on what is about to transpire.
There is a tension about the room and Natan might be the only one unaware of it. It centers on one of his examiners, a woman wearing a scandalously low-cut dress and a puffy toque, sitting with her arms crossed and casting impatient glances out the window. She is unused to being made to wait. No doubt the most perspicacious among my readers will readily guess the personage I am describing, that famous sorceress and hat connoisseur Sheala de Tansarville.
The rest of the examiners steal anxious glances at her from time to time. Schools of magic have not been established at the behest of kings before; it is only the fear of offending that wisest among monarchs, His Majesty the King Radovid, that has prevented the Conclave from outright shutting down the Oxenfurt School of Magic. Sheala's presence constitutes the first time they have been asked to let an outsider examine their curriculum.
They view Sheala with a mixture of uncertainty and admiration, for she is so unlike them. All of them are wizened old men, used to spending their days among books and debating the fine points of magical theory. They shun politics and any kind of intrigue. By contrast, she is a woman; of great beauty no less; in the prime of her youth (though who can say what her true age might be?); and it is speculated that she spends her time pulling at the strings of kings. They suspect some nefarious purpose at the Conclave's decision to send her here.
Finally, the last of the examiners walks through the door. He is a frail old gentleman, habitually late due to his poor vision and unfortunate habit of getting lost in familiar quarters. The chair of the committee - a renowned by the name of Brennus of Bellhaven who happens to be the only man among them without a foot in the doldrums of old age - calls the meeting to order.
For the first hour Natan does quite well. He gives a perfectly satisfactory account of the relationship between the various dialects of the Aen Seidhe language. At the behest of one of his examiners, he brews a potion of stuttering and demonstrates its effectiveness by drinking it. The next few minutes are not very productive but no one seems to mind, except perhaps for Sheala who glances at the proceedings with impatience. A butterfly that has had the ill fortune to fly in through the window is transformed, via a complex ritual that takes the better part of the hour, into a puff of smoke, and then back again; terrified, it flutters madly about the room before finding the window.
Natan's confidence flourishes as the encouraging smiles from his examiners grow. A part of him even enjoys flaunting his erudition. After all, he has studied hard for many years, all in preparation for this moment; why should't he enjoy it?
Eventually all but Sheala, who has been keeping silent, find their questions satisfactorily answered. The rest of them turn to her expectantly. She smiles curtly, leans forward, and clears her throat.
"How do you breathe underwater?"
This strikes Natan as a rather odd thing to ask. "Well, a killer whale potions allows one…"
"Imagine yourself thrown off a cliff," she interrupts. "You haven't the time to brew potions."
"I suppose Roggeveen's Transfiguration can remove the bonds of hydrogen, turning water into air. Cast in conjunction with Vattweir's Funnel..."
"You are underwater," she enunciates. "The moment you open your mouth to cast a spell, water will flood your lungs."
"Hmmm," he says, scratching the back of his head. "There are levitation spells that can be cast with hand gestures alone. I could use one of them to push me to the surface…"
"...and into the hands of the very people who threw you into the water," she finishes, almost amused. Before he can reply, she moves on to the next topic. "You are being chased by a pack of hunting hounds."
There is a pause as they look at each other.
"I don't think I heard a question."
"How do you escape?"
"Hmmm. Open a portal?"
"Portals require several minutes to prime. Time that you do not have."
"How about a samum spell to blind them?"
"Do you know anything about dogs? They can find you by the sense of smell alone."
"An illusion, then," Natan answers, thinking he has found a satisfactory answer at last. "Ibn Rudwan's Duplico will copy my appearance as well as my smell. It is a quick spell, easily castable while running."
"That will only distract some of the pack. You will still have half of the dogs chasing after you."
He pauses to think about it. After she judges he has said nothing for too long, Sheala launches into the next round of questioning. "Your hands have been bound in front of you with dimeritium shackles. You are being led to your own execution. What do you do?"
Natan sighs. These are not the kinds of questions he should have to answer. "Profess my innocence?"
She meets this with a silent glare.
"Well, I suppose I can rely on verbal chants…"
"You are a fool if you think your guards will let you get out a syllable before breaking your teeth."
This is not going well. Natan decides to pause again and figure out the answer she really wants to hear. There are not too many possibilities and he begins to run through them, trying to guess what her response might be to each one.
Once again, though, he must have paused for too long. The next thing he knew she had thrown a fireball at him.
Reader, you will accuse me of lies or exaggerations and I quite see why; but, I vow to you, I speak the truth and only the truth; may my mother give birth to a goat if I deceive you.
In Sheala's defence, I will say that, first, she had good reasons for what she did, as will become clear in time; second, although our story takes place on Redanian soil, in Oxenfurt, a bastion of refinement and culture if there ever was one, the city of Tansarville from which Sheala hails lies in Creyden, and we can hardly expect the natives of that nation to be conversant with our codes of civilized behavior.
Natan was so surprised that he nearly froze. Time seemed to have stopped. His first thought was that this was only an illusion, something designed to give him a good scare; but the faint feeling of warmth on his skin contradicted that. This was a real fireball, he thought with a start, Meletile save me. Had he not the presence of mind to step aside, he may very well have been incinerated.
Acting on instinct he muttered the words of Assengard's Shield just before a second fireball slammed into it. He had no idea what to do. After a moment's hesitation, he ran for the door; a third fireball caught him as he was half-way there, his shield collapsing with a loud bang at the impact. The recoil pushed him onto the floor. Furniture all around the room was burning, charred pieces of it collapsing on the floor. His hand was suddenly caught beneath some rubble, and by the time he managed to pull it out, Sheala stood over him, fire shimmering in her hands.
The rest of his examiners seemed to be caught as unawares as he was. Some of them seemed frozen in place; others blinked as if they could not believe their eyes; most, though, had the presence of mind to hide beneath their chairs. Only Brennus was shouting something, though between the burning fires and the ringing in his ears, Natan could not make out his words.
Reader, I am happy to report that this is where Natan's distressing ordeal came to an end. After a moment, the fire burning in Sheala's hands disappeared; she whispered a few words and all the fires in the room went out instantly.
"Thank you," she said, strolling back to her chair. "Please step outside for a few moments while the committee discusses your performance."
There was a silence as they all stared at her.
"Incidentally," she added, "the Pompilus incantation, castable with gestures of the fingers only, will let you grow gills and breathe underwater for several hours. If you, like most mages, carry mana stones in your pockets, you might crush them to melt dimeritium. You should always wear rings primed to teleport you a half-mile straight ahead. Assengard's shield spell is notoriously weak when subjected to concentrated bursts of energy; try to layer it alongside the version developed by Cornutus."
Natan kept on looking at her in shock.
"I could have died…"
"My necklace - " she pulled it out of the folds of her dress "-disguises an amulet which can heal burn wounds. Had you failed I would have had you good as new."
"Now," she pointed to the door, "do step outside while we discuss your performance."
Natan turned his outraged gaze to the other examiners, who had, by now, managed to seat themselves upon their chairs once more. Finding no support in their eyes, he turned and left the room in a huff.
This part was usually only a formality; one lounged awkwardly outside the door for a minute or two before a smiling member of the committee stepped out with congratulations. At least, this is what happened to all of Natan's classmates; and so Natan could be forgiven for wondering, after an hour of watching the closed door, whether he had been entirely forgotten about.
But eventually the door did open and Natan was politely asked to step inside.
The room was in the same state as when he had left it; broken furniture was strewn about and everything seemed in disarray. No one bothered with spells that would have set things upright, or at least removed the wood dust from the air. Only the row of chairs on which his committee members sat in tense silence was free of rubble.
Brennus cleared his throat.
"Having discussed the matter at length..." he stopped as if flustered, then began again. "After an extended discussion, we have come to the conclusion that your education has been deficient in some of the more practical aspects…"
He let the sentence hang in mid-air.
"What I mean is that we'd like you to do a final project."
"None of my classmates had to do a project."
"Indeed." Brennus looked away. "Nevertheless, we are instituting a new policy, I think. Beginning with you."
"And what is this project?"
"You must produce an unhatched dragon egg in two month's time," Brennus said apologetically.
Natan almost laughed. "You want me to defeat a dragon?"
"That is one way to obtain a dragon egg," Sheala interjected.
"This is ridiculous."
"No," Sheala said coldly. "What is ridiculous is a magic school that trains mages who cannot venture outside a well-guarded library."
"Have you heard the news as of late?" she continued. "Gwydion of Nazair was killed in the street last week. Three alchemical stores were burned by an angry mob in Vizima, their proprietors hanged in public while the royal guard looked on. The Conclave meeting last month took place on a mountain top for fear of angry riots. Hardly a day goes by without an incident."
"I haven't faced any…" Natan began.
"Only because you've been shut inside a library."
In truth, what Natan was about to protest was a half-truth at best. Even he, cloistered as he was, felt the scornful looks his mage's robe provoked whenever he did venture into the city. Even when he was not cheated by merchants or elbowed by passing pedestrians, an undertone of disdain was present in every interaction. Only among the aristocracy was this absent; with them, he only felt the aloofness and scorn that came with his lack of station.
"You can escape these ill-tidings for a while if you continue confining yourself to the library," Sheala continued. "But the world will force you to face it sooner or later." She paused and, for the first time, looked at Natan with something approaching sympathy. "Dark times are coming, I'm afraid. Soon all our backs will be against the wall. Think carefully of the questions I asked. The right answers might one day save your life."
"Do you seriously expect me to defeat a dragon?"
"If you cannot pass this test, then for your own good you should eke out a living as a village herbalist somewhere. Not a mage."
And with that she turned and left the room, hopping gracefully over the furniture remnants as she did so.
"It is not an easy assignment, I know," Brennus said after the door had slammed behind her. "But we agreed because we have highest confidence in you."
"And because we had little choice," one of the examiners muttered, the same old man who made them all wait earlier.
"We cannot help you directly," Brennus continued, "but I will say this: think creatively about the problem. Do not go for the brute force solution."
Natan said nothing. They all stood awkwardly for a moment, avoiding each other's eyes. Naive as he was, Natan wondered why, given the evident sympathies of his teachers, they did not simply send Sheala back to whatever hole she came from. For years now he had looked up to these people. More than that, they were his idols. And here they had turned and betrayed him.
Once it became clear there was nothing more to be said, they all shuffled out of the room, leaving Natan standing. It struck him now that he was the only one in his class to fail the examination.