They were finishing their supper when Ozorne nudged Varice. “I think someone is hunting us.” Both Varice and Arram looked where Ozorne did: a proctor was pointing to their table.
An older student trotted over to them, waving a length of parchment. “Arram Draper?” he asked when he was close enough to be heard. Ozorne and Varice pointed to Arram. “With Headmaster Cosmas’s regards,” the messenger said, handing his parchment to Arram. “You poor young cluck.”
“If you peeked at that you’d know he’s no cluck!” Varice shouted after him as the messenger hurried off. She took the parchment from Arram, who did not protest. He would never snatch anything away from her. Only when she and Ozorne had gotten a thorough look at it did they hand it to Arram: it was his new schedule for the remainder of the term.
He winced. The masters had not been jesting when they had said they were going to make him work. Looking at his afternoon’s studies, he squeaked, “I’ll be bored to death!”
“Not unless the masters say you can die,” Ozorne replied with a chuckle. “Cheer up, my lad. Varice and I have this class with you, and this one. I have this one, and I took these two last term, so you can use my notes.”
“You can use my notes for this one,” Varice added, pointing. “And I have these two with you. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
“And we can study together,” Ozorne said cheerfully.
Ozorne also introduced him to the back halls and hidden shortcuts that got them places faster. He showed Arram the university’s many hidden shrines to varied gods, where the friends left small gifts in thanks to the Great Mother; to Mithros, the god of men, boys, and scholars; and to the Black God, who oversaw not only death but also the arts of the mage. In his previous three years Arram had not learned as much about the university as he did with Ozorne and Varice.
One early November night he flung himself onto his bed and went to sleep, leaving the shutters wide open for any bit of cool air that might happen by. As a result, he was roused from his dreams when something dropped onto his face.
His teachers in animal studies all said that animals acted in two ways: fight or flight. Most of the boys boldly proclaimed they were fighters, while they sat at their desks on a bright day. Arram discovered that night that he did neither. Instead he froze as the small creature slapped him repeatedly with a leathery wing.
Slowly, with shaking hands and the greatest of care, he lifted it from his face. It scolded in the softest of squeaks. That and the wings told him that his visitor was a bat. Gently he rose and placed it on his bed, leaving it to flutter there. He’d already noticed that one of the wings wasn’t working. Groping in the dim light of the half moon, he found his candle and flint. Within seconds, he had light enough to see clearly.
His two-inch visitor had broken a wing. This was beyond his skills. He found a basket and placed an old shirt in the bottom, then eased the bat inside as it continued to scold him. It settled somewhat after he took his hands away, quivering as it glared up at him.
“You’ll be all right,” Arram assured it as he covered the basket with the shirtsleeves. “I’m sure there’s someone who can patch you up. Just be patient.” Arram dressed quickly and pulled on his sandals.
“What are you doing over there?” Ozorne complained sleepily. “Don’t tell me you talk in your sleep now.”
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Arram replied. He carried the basket over to Ozorne’s cubicle, nearly tripping on a stack of books. He yelped. “Someday you’re going to break a bone this way.”
“Why? I know where I left them.” In the dim light from Ozorne’s open window, Arram saw his friend make a twisted hand gesture. The candles on his desk lit.
“We’re not allowed to do that,” Arram said wistfully. He in particular was forbidden to do anything of the kind without supervision.
“Why? Do you think you’ll make your room explode?” Ozorne looked at Arram, who was tidying the cloth on top of the bat. “Mithros save us, you do think you’ll destroy your room.”
“It was a shed,” Arram mumbled. “And then a pile of old crates. And then they wouldn’t let me work any basic fire spells without a certified mage being present.” He gulped. “They say I’ll grow out of it.”
“Horse eggs,” Ozorne retorted. “You just need the right teacher.”
“They say I need to meditate more and control my Gift,” Arram explained. “But never mind me. This little thing is hurt. Can you help?”
“ ‘Little thing’? What have you got? It had better not be a snake.” Ozorne carefully raised the shirtsleeves covering Arram’s discovery. “A bat!” He lifted the small animal and inspected her belly. “A girl bat, see? You really ought to release her.”
“No, look—her left wing is broken. It has to be splinted, and she has to be kept quiet. Put her back, please? I’ll get in trouble if she’s in our room—”
Ozorne raised a finger. At last he said, “Shoo for a moment. Let me get dressed. We’ll take her to Master Lindhall.”
Arram returned to his mattress, murmuring reassurances to his bat. She had a long muzzle tipped with a pair of nostrils that pointed in different directions. Before he covered her again, he saw that her fur was a dark cinnamon in color. Her long ears pointed straight up.
She was the first animal who had come his way in a long time. He wanted so badly to keep her! In his first year he had smuggled in a tortoise and several lizards to live under his bed, only to get caught by the proctors. Away went his pets, and he was assigned extra schoolwork for punishment.
“Won’t we get in trouble?” he asked his friend softly.
“Nonsense,” Ozorne said cheerfully. “We’re doing a merciful deed. No one can fault us for rescuing a wounded creature. How did she come to you?”
“She landed on my face.”
Ozorne was grinning when he joined Arram. “I don’t know if your luck is good or bad,” he whispered as he opened the door. “It’s certainly interesting.” He gestured for quiet, and they tiptoed out of the building.
He led Arram past the dormitories used by the Upper Academy students, who were studying for their mages’ certificates, and the mastery students, who had certificates and now worked on specializations. Torches lit the way. There were always people in the libraries and workrooms, whatever the hour.
Beyond the student dormitories lay buildings for instructors and those masters who were teachers. One of these lay on the southernmost road within university property. Ozorne led him inside, up to the top floor, and down a softly lit hall.
Arram sniffed. The corridor smelled like…plants. And animals. Like the aviary, or an enclosed wing at the menagerie.
Ozorne knocked on a door. “I hope I can wake him,” he told Arram over his shoulder. “If he’s been away he’s hard to rouse. Otherwise we’ll have to try his student, and he’s a pain….”
The door opened abruptly; Ozorne nearly fell in. A light, breathy voice said, “It’s the young fellow who’s good with birds. What is so urgent that you must deny me my sleep, Prince Ozorne?”
Ozorne waved Arram forward. “My friend has a hurt bat, Master Lindhall.”
“A bat, is it?”
Arram looked up at Master Lindhall. He’d really thought they’d find one of the master’s student helpers, not the man himself—the man who had said Arram was much too young to study with him. Lindhall inspected him with bright blue eyes. “Come in, come in. Quietly—my assistant is asleep.” He took Arram’s basket and retreated into his rooms.
“Come along,” Ozorne whispered when Arram hesitated. “Don’t you want to see where he lives?”
They followed the master through a sitting room that doubled as a library. Shelves heavy with books seemed to lean from the walls, ready to collapse on the thick carpets and cushions at any moment. Arram craned to look at the titles, until Ozorne grabbed his arm and towed him down a corridor, passing closed doors. The scent of animal droppings and urine thickened.
The tall man entered a room and left the door open. He set the basket on a long counter and snapped his fingers. Light filled the lamps hanging overhead. When he lowered his hand they dimmed. Arram guessed that this was so they would be easier on the bat’s eyes. He sighed with envy. Would he ever be as effortless in working magic as Ozorne and Master Lindhall?
Lindhall uncovered the bat. “Hello, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’ve had a bad night. You were lucky to find someone kind….Don’t mind my big old hands.” Gently he lifted the bat from the basket. “You, my love, are a common pippistrelle. Your kindred are found along Carthak’s northern shores, along the Inland Sea, on Tortall’s shores, and inland as far north as the Great Road East. You should be thinking about hibernation, but it’s been a warm autumn.” He carefully placed the bat on her back on Arram’s cloth, spreading the left wing wide. “Lovely, my dear. A perfect wing. You tried to feed as often as you could before the rains. It’s worth the risk of a wetting, isn’t it?”
The pippistrelle, who had struggled at first, calmed and watched Master Lindhall with her large dark eyes as if she understood every word. Arram and Ozorne were quiet as well, observing as those big fingers handled the tiny creature.
“You broke your left wing, and the strongest part, the radius bone. Now, I have small bamboo splints around here somewhere, in a red clay cup….”
Arram saw a number of such cups on a shelf in front of him. They were different sizes, with bamboo and wooden splints of corresponding lengths, from a foot to three inches. He took down the cup of three-inch splints and showed it to Lindhall, who nodded. Ozorne offered a roll of loosely woven cotton to the master, who said, “Would you be so good as to cut eight inches of that off for me?”
The boys watched as the man gently splinted the broken bone. He then bound the folded wing to the bat’s side to keep it from moving. Whether it was due to fright, magic, or fascination with Lindhall’s soft commentary, the bat remained still, her eyes fixed on her caretaker.
Finally Lindhall gathered her up and led the boys to a second room. Here a number of recovering animals, including two other bats, were housed in wood or metal cages. Lindhall placed the pippistrelle in one and filled its water dish. “My student will feed you later,” he assured the bat. He ushered the boys into the hall as he cut off the light and closed the door.
Back in his sitting room, he looked at his guests. “Still here?” he asked, shaking his head. “You’ll be useless in class in the morning. Off with you! Oh!” he added as they turned. “You did right bringing her to me.”
They ran to their dormitory. They were settling in their beds when Arram said, “Thank you for helping. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Ozorne chuckled. “Are you joking? I jump at any excuse to visit Master Lindhall! Go to sleep!”
Grinning, Arram turned over and slept.
The term passed so quickly that Arram hardly noticed when the cold weather set in and the rains followed. He did realize that for the first Midwinter festivities since his arrival at the university, he had friends to share the holiday and gifts with him. Instead of spending long days and nights reading on his cot, he was welcomed to parties by Varice and those who wanted to stay friends with her and Ozorne. The prince even got to join them on the fourth day of the holiday, the longest night of the year. In his honor the emperor presented the Lower Academy with a fabulous breakfast of fruits, eggs, meat, fresh breads, and cheeses to mark the return of the sun. Afterward, everyone waddled to their beds for a long sleep before the evening’s parties.
“This is far better,” Ozorne told Arram between yawns as they staggered into their cubicles. “Mother didn’t like me spending so much time only with a girl the last couple of years, so she’d drag me to the palace every night of the holiday. I’d have to be polite to every stiff statue in court, even though they can’t be bothered to remember my name. Now that we’re friends, though, Mother isn’t clutching me so tightly.” He cleared his throat. “I may have mentioned that you like Varice.”
“Well, of course I do!” Arram replied, startled. “You two are the best friends…” He looked at Ozorne’s grin and realized his friend meant a different kind of liking. That wouldn’t do—Ozorne would tease him mercilessly if he believed Arram had feelings for their friend. “Ozorne! I don’t think of her like that!” he lied. “She doesn’t think of me like that!”
Ozorne wandered into his cubicle, shedding his long tunic. The beads rattled in his hair as he pulled on his nightshirt. “So sensitive,” he joked.
Arram made a rude noise and retired to his own cubicle to change into his night gear. He was drifting off when he said, “I thought you liked Varice.”
Ozorne responded with a yawn, then said, “We already have it worked out. It will be years and years before any of us have learned enough magic to make us happy. By then I will have gotten the emperor’s permission to set up as a mage on my own, perhaps in the central mountains. I could represent him there. Varice has agreed to be my housekeeper and hostess, and if you like, you can work with me as well. We’ll keep the emperor’s peace, study new plants, volcanoes, and waterfalls the size of entire towns, and no one will bother us. What do you say?”
“Sounds glorious,” Arram mumbled, then slept.
He was riding a log like a horse, bouncing along huge, roaring waves. Ahead of him the river thundered like the god’s greatest wrath. It was exciting; it felt strange; he was scared to tumble into what had to be waterfalls ahead. One more bounce as the log dropped off the top of a wave—
He woke on his belly. Outside his shuttered window he could hear the roar of pouring rain. “So that’s what it is,” he muttered, and dropped his face into his pillow.
His male organ was pinching him somehow. He turned to the side. That at least took his weight off of it, but it still didn’t feel quite right. He squirmed, but the feeling remained.
He touched his organ and flinched. It was not its usual relaxed and floppy self. “Stop it!” he ordered softly, wondering if someone had bespelled him, or if he was going to die. There was no change in his body’s new state.
He tried to hear if Ozorne was awake, but the rain drowned out his roommate’s light snore. Arram clutched his covers around himself and addressed prayers to a number of gods. At last his midsection began to feel as it usually did. When he took another peek, the member was back to normal. He silently thanked whichever god had intervened.
He heard a thump on the other side of the wall. Ozorne was up.
“You’d best not be lolling about in bed,” his friend called. “It’s the first day of the new term. The sun returns, or at least Great Mithros is planning to, and the Crone also considers loosening her grip. We can hope for warmth instead of freezing in class.”
Through all this Arram could hear his friend clothing himself. He cautiously rose and did the same, checking his member repeatedly. It remained in its proper position, as still as a post. Perhaps “post” was not the way to think of it, he realized, considering its earlier behavior.
For a moment he considered asking Ozorne about it, then rejected the idea in panic. He knew of older boys and men who were considered to be zoeg in Thak, or a couple in Common, but he also knew plenty of boys who turned nasty when they thought another boy might be interested in them physically. More than once he’d seen one boy viciously attack another when it was suggested. He didn’t want to risk it, and he didn’t want to risk the friendship. Better to find a book about it, perhaps in the Library of Medicine, or suck up his courage and see a healer. And perhaps it would never happen again.
The term rushed along. For a time his member behaved itself, enough that Arram forgot its unusual act. He had other things on his mind. At lunch on the first day of the spring term Master Cosmas called Arram out of the room and gave him a square of parchment. “Arram, I’ve made a bit of a change to your schedule. One of Master Lindhall’s assistants will instruct you in fish and shellfish anatomy during the time when you formerly learned sigils. This is where you will find the workroom.”
“Yes, Master,” Arram murmured, reading the paper.
“You’ll continue your study of sigils in your class on the written word and writing technique in the afternoon. Both your masters feel that you have made enough progress to manage the combination.”
Arram nodded, fingering the paper. Fish and shellfish meant more cutting dead animals up, as he did with birds and lizards, and drawing their insides. It was interesting in a peculiar way.
“Is something wrong?” Master Cosmas asked, his bright blue eyes worried. “Have I loaded you with too much? Several of your masters say you are outpacing what they planned for you this term.”
Arram smiled at the kind older man. Cosmas often checked to see how he was doing, slipping Arram a handful of sweets or an interesting book in addition. “No, sir, I’ll be fine. I’m twelve now, you know.”
Cosmas’s eyes danced. As head of the school, he had access to Arram’s records. He knew Arram’s true age, but he never let on that he did. “I believe I gave you a birthday present at the time,” he replied seriously. “But you appear concerned.”
“Oh, I was only thinking that Varice will fuss over me working with fish and shellfish. She’ll make me change clothes before supper, probably.”
Cosmas chuckled and looked up as the university’s bells chimed. “There’s the hour—I’ll walk you to mathematics. I have no doubt that she will do exactly that,” he said, continuing their earlier discussion. “She is very precise. Did you expect her to make a fuss over your cutting up animals?”
“I did a bit when I started with birds and reptiles,” Arram confessed. “But she was assigned to teach me how to do it. She’s very good at it.”
Cosmas nodded. “It’s her experience as a cook,” he murmured. “It makes her the most nimble-fingered student in this academy.” He looked at a group of rushing young students and called, “You will get there in time. Proceed at a normal pace.”
One of them squeaked at the sight of the headmaster. They promptly obeyed, swerving to the opposite side of the corridor from Arram and his intimidating companion.
“Truthfully, I was never so happy as when Varice and Ozorne took you up,” Cosmas went on. “Varice has been a wonderful friend to Ozorne. She brought him out of his shell after his father’s death, but they both drew away from the school at the time. They turned inward, associating largely with one another. Now they have taken a liking to you, and it has made them more sociable. Introducing you to the university has gotten them to be part of it again.”
Arram remembered that upon his new placement, the three of them had usually sat alone. Then slowly others decided to become part of their small group. Now new students joined them for meals, study sessions, and explorations in town. Ozorne, who used to talk largely to Varice and Arram, did so now with the others, if not as much.
“But why?” Arram inquired. He couldn’t decide if he meant “Why me?” or “Why are you telling me?”
“Some special thread among you three,” Cosmas said quietly. “It is not only that you are the most rapidly advancing students in the Lower Academy, either. A thread that has brought you together, perhaps. Here is your class.” He left Arram standing in front of the room. “Good luck.”
For the first week of the term Arram tried to observe his two friends, looking for that special connection, but if it was there, he didn’t see it. He watched them so intensely that others noticed. One day at lunch a schoolmate joked, “What, are you in love with Ozorne? You goggle at him enough!”
Arram gaped at him. Then he snapped, “Who invited you to sit here?”
Ozorne led the laughter from the others and slung his arm around Arram’s shoulder. Varice did the same from the other side and told Arram’s tormentor, “If you can’t be witty, you may seat yourself somewhere else.”
His cheeks flaming red, the boy gathered up his things and left the table. One of the others left with him. Varice and Ozorne released Arram’s shoulders, each with a firm squeeze. Arram lowered his head, smiling and teary-eyed at the same time. They were such good friends!
“That was unkind,” Ozorne said. “I didn’t know you had it in you!”
Arram glanced up; Ozorne winked at him. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be rude,” Arram explained.
Varice patted his arm. “Nonsense. You are far too polite. Since we can’t hit bullies without getting into trouble, we learn to say cutting things.”
“To start with,” Ozorne added.
“You’re always joking,” Varice said, crinkling her nose. “May we please finish our meal?”
Cosmas was right: Arram could handle the combined sigils and writing classes, which Arram considered to be a blessing. Fish and shellfish anatomy was as difficult as birds and reptiles, though his ability to sketch improved week by week. He even found himself making idle sketches of people and plants when he was daydreaming. He was so busy that it was a month before he noticed that Ozorne was escaping their lunch group several times a week to eat by himself. All of them did it now and then—the pace of schoolwork was so intense that sometimes it was necessary to find a corner to oneself. Ozorne had done it before, but this was more frequent.
He also talked less once he put his bedtime lamp out as February wore on into March. At study times they all talked only when they needed help with a problem. Arram noticed no difference there, but he felt snubbed when Ozorne replied briefly to anything he said and turned away.
One Friday night Arram asked, “Do we have plans for tomorrow?”
“No, I do not have plans, and I do not want to join in plans,” the boy on the other side of the wall snapped. “How many times can you look at the same stupid vendors and the same stupid animals? Just leave me be!”
Arram trembled at the sharpness of the reply to a perfectly ordinary question. He hugged his pillow to his face and tried to think of a proper retort. All those he considered were too extreme, too rude, or too childish.
He was still considering mighty retorts when he heard a deep sigh and bare feet on stone. Ozorne pulled out Arram’s chair. “Are you trying to smother yourself?” he asked.
“Go away,” Arram said, his voice muffled. He lifted the pillow to admit air and to emit his voice. “I said, go away.”
“Arram, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to insult them—please forgive me.” Ozorne nudged the bed with his foot. “Please? I must be coming down with something. My head aches. I just want to stay in and sleep, understand?”
Arram wanted to ask if he’d been getting ill for three weeks, but let it go. “Anything I can do?” he asked.
“No. Look, I just get a little…cranky this time of year. Don’t mind me, will you? Whatever I say?”
“Have you any idea why you turn…cranky?” Arram asked cautiously.
Ozorne gave an unprincely snort. “Why does anybody get cross when the weather’s like this, day after everlasting day? Even you…I’ve noticed you’re forever sneaking down to the river. You come back with sand on your shoes. How are you getting out of the grounds, anyway? All the gates are closed and locked at sunset, and there’s guards on duty.”
Arram sat up and shrugged. “There’s a tree with branches that hang over the wall in the citrus garden.”
Ozorne smiled. “I’m surprised old Hulak hasn’t caught you yet. Stop going there, will you? It’s too dangerous in the dark, especially during the winter floods. They say Enzi, the crocodile god, roams the banks, looking for fresh meat.” He boosted himself from Arram’s chair. “I’ll tell you what. I will try to be sociable, and you will stay away from the river, all right? It’s been known to rise four feet in a day.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but returned to his cubicle. He could be like that sometimes, thinking his requests—the ones that sounded like orders—would be obeyed instantly.
Arram stared absently into the darkness. Ozorne had it wrong. Arram didn’t visit the river to escape the school. He went for the roar of swiftly moving water. He loved the waves that rose there only during the floods. The bellows of hippopotamus herds and masses of crocodiles thrilled him. The river was a god, taking trees, reeds, boats, and anything else it found. And he didn’t believe the crocodile god, Enzi, actually roamed the river’s banks. Gods didn’t just appear in the Mortal Realms!
Someday he would take a boat along the river’s length. He would discover all its wonders, and learn to use its every magic.
“Don’t tell me Ozorne’s not coming,” Varice demanded at breakfast.
“He said he must be getting ill. He wants to stay in,” Arram explained uncomfortably. He didn’t think Ozorne was telling the truth, and he hated lying to Varice, even if it was just a lie he passed along.
Varice led them to an empty table. She set her tray down with a crisp clack. “Well, that does it,” she said quietly. “I’ve been concerned for this last week.” She patted Arram’s hand. “Don’t worry. There are things we can do, after I attend services.” Varice was more religious than Arram and Ozorne put together, at least when it came to the temples of the university and town. Arram made the Sign on his chest for luck, before they both ate a hearty breakfast. It was a habit they’d brought from Northern homes: when Ozorne took breakfast, he had a Southern meal of yogurt, wheat or barley flatbread, a little fruit, and juice. He often teased Arram and Varice that by the time they were masters they would have to be rolled wherever they wished. It was a joke neither of his friends liked, but he seemed not to notice.
Breakfast done, Varice went off to her worship. Arram wandered out the nearest side gate and to the river cliffs once again. He had to give up the road to the wharf, since it was half underwater. The shaggy grass on the high ground was soaked. So were his breeches by the time he reached the heights that overlooked the Zekoi.
The view was better than it was at night. At night he mostly listened, half entranced by the sound of nature out of control. On his rare daylight trips he observed the waves that rose in normally flat waters, waves that tossed up spume like those at sea. He counted the whole trees and dead animals that passed, bracing himself against the grief of the animals’ loss by telling himself they were sacrifices to the river god. He knew the farmers sacrificed to Zekoi, since the god provided the water that flooded their fields, bringing rich mud that sired bountiful crops. It made sense that the plants and creatures of the lands would do the same for their water and food.
Dwelling on these and other ideas, he lost track of time. When he came around, he was caught in the middle of a cloudburst. The gate guard laughed as the dripping boy passed through. Arram pretended not to notice as he trotted back to his dormitory. It was a relief to shed his soaked tunic and sandals next to his door.
It was much less of a relief to walk inside his room clad only in his loincloth—also soaked—and hear Varice talking quietly to Ozorne.
“Arram?” she called.
“Don’t come around!” he yelped, ducking into his cubicle. He scrabbled in his chest for dry clothes. His face burned despite the cold water pouring down from his hair. First the tunic for cover, he ordered himself, then a towel for my head, and a dry loincloth…
He looked down. He had donned an old blue-and-orange tunic that was now far too short for his legs and arms, even for a Northern student.
“Stay there!” he commanded, more panicked than ever.
“Whatever you’re doing, do it anywhere else,” Ozorne commanded, his voice weary and vexed. “I said I wanted to be left alone. Are you two hard of hearing?”
Arram produced long breeches and yanked them on. Decently covered, if not attractively—the breeches were tan—he looked into Ozorne’s cubicle. Varice sat on the floor near the opening, a book open in her lap. When she turned her head to gaze up at Arram, she began to giggle.
“Ozorne, look, he’s wearing a turban,” she joked. “I didn’t know you were visiting the Ergwae tribes this morning!”
“I wish he’d taken you with him and stayed there,” Ozorne snapped. “Don’t you know the meaning of ‘go’?”
“Not when you say it,” she replied pertly. “And Arram just lost his ability to hear it, didn’t you?” She gazed up at Arram, patted the floor beside her, and mouthed, “Sit down.”
Arram looked from her to the mound of pillows and blankets that was Ozorne. He’d never had to choose between them, nor had he gotten commands from both of them. He picked the middle road. Yanking the towel from his sodden curls, he scrubbed his hair.
“Great Mother, what happened?” Varice demanded. “Did you take a nap out there? And what happened to your feet?”
Arram glanced down. Mud oozed between his toes and down his shins. “The river heights are a little soggy,” he explained. He went out to the gallery, where the servants kept a rinsing bucket. He cleaned off the mud, then returned to mop his floor. Varice waited for him to finish, a wicked-looking comb in her hand.
Arram balked. “That’s going to hurt.”
“There’s a little of Ozorne’s scented oil in it.”
“Will you two go?” A sandal flew over the barrier between the beds and struck Arram’s chair.
Arram backed up against the door. “I don’t want smelly substances in my hair, particularly not Ozorne’s smelly things!”
Varice walked by and recovered the sandal. She whispered, “Keep it up. He’s getting livelier.” In a louder tone she added, “Don’t be silly. Oil makes hair easier to untangle.”
Arram drew breath for another protest, never taking his eyes from the menace of the comb. Without warning, the door swung open and knocked him forward to his knees. He virtually tackled Varice; she fell onto her rump with a shriek.
“What in the Divine Realms is going on here?” demanded Master Chioké. Although he sounded shocked, he still calmly shook water from his hands and satchel onto the two young people. His long black hair, pinned back in twists of braided gold chain, was perfectly dry, as were his feet. Disgruntled, Arram guessed that the master must have left waterproof boots and a cloak hung in the gallery outside.
“Student Varice, you are not supposed to be here,” Chioké informed her sternly. He stepped past her and Arram.
Varice struggled to rise. Arram reached out and helped to pull her arms so she could stand. Carefully he fought his own way upright without falling onto her again.
Varice curtsied. “I have permission from the housekeeper, Master Chioké,” she said demurely, gazing at the floor. Arram knew that tone and downward look: she was furious that the master had knocked them down without helping them to rise. “I told her that Prince Ozorne had missed the morning meal, so I brought him juice and food. I was reading to him from one of our lessons when Arram came in. Wasn’t I, Arram?”
Arram nodded. “Ozorne was telling us to go away. I’m sure he’ll tell you to go away, too, Master,” he said, all innocence. Ozorne had told him once that Chioké said he thought Arram was talented, but perhaps a little simple. “Ozorne tells everyone to go away,” he added in the face of Chioké’s suspicious glare.
Ozorne sprang up from his heap of blankets. “I do want you to go away, all of you! That’s the thing about this poxy, deep-fouled place—a fellow can’t get any quiet!” He raised a hand that held his other slipper. “And don’t look daggers at me! You don’t know what—”
Chioké stepped around Arram and Varice, removing his satchel from his shoulder. Ozorne abruptly fell silent. “I am surprised by you, Prince Ozorne,” the mage said quietly. “Your royal mother would be most distressed to hear you speak to friends in such a manner, particularly when they act only from concern.”
“I hate clinging,” Ozorne muttered. He glanced at Varice and Arram. “But I’m sorry. I’ve just been…itchy, of late. Itchy and cross and sleepy.” He glared at Chioké, who took a flask from his satchel and removed the top. It was a small cup. “And what’s the use?” Ozorne continued to rant while Varice clung to Arram’s arm. “I’ll get sucked into palace business anyway….I’ll never get to be a mage. They’ll put me in the army….I’ll be cut down, just like Father—” His voice was rising.
Chioké deftly pulled the cork that plugged the flask and poured a small measure of liquid into the cup. Arram could see the liquid shining brightly in the journey from bottle to cup and in the cup itself. Chioké offered the shimmering vessel to Ozorne. “Drink, Your Highness,” he told Ozorne. “All will be well.”
“You aren’t bespelling him, are you?” Arram asked, despite his own caution around masters. “We aren’t supposed to take any cantrip unless given by the healers.”
“You dare.” There was danger in Chioké’s voice. “Just because you have dazzled a handful of soppish mages does not mean I will permit you to question me!”
Varice covered Arram’s mouth with her hand. “No, Master, please, he doesn’t understand! Please don’t be angry!” she pleaded.
“Then get him away from here and explain, before I teach him the respect he owes a master who will not coddle him!” Chioké ordered.
Arram protested, but Varice dug both hands into his arm. That was when he discovered that her beautiful fingernails were not only for decoration. Wincing, he let her tow him out into the corridor. “But my clothes,” he protested. “Proper clothes…And he isn’t supposed to…mmph!”
She had clapped a hand over his mouth. “Will you be silent and let me explain?” she demanded. “My goodness, Arram, but you do clack on sometimes! Master Chioké is Ozorne’s personal master.”
Arram peeled her hand away from his face. “But it’s only the ones that show great promise who get a personal master,” he reminded her. “And that only in their last years at the Upper Academy.”
Varice sighed and leaned against the wall. “Ozorne is different. His mother and the emperor weren’t going to let him return here at all after his father…”
Arram nodded. She meant after his father had died.
“Master Chioké stepped in and said he would be Ozorne’s personal master, even though he’s too young. He’s doing it for Ozorne’s family.”
Arram scratched his head. “But he’s a fire mage, not a healer.”
Varice shrugged. “I suppose he got the medicine from healers, or Ozorne’s mother. Take my word, those two treat Ozorne like gold.”
Arram looked at his door. “So now what do I do?”
“You take these clean clothes.” The housekeeper, Irafa, stood in her open doorway. She offered a set of his clothing to him. How long had she been there, listening? Arram thought, horrified.
“Silly, she has to know about Ozorne, with him in her care,” Varice said, guessing what Arram thought. She asked Irafa, “May he change in your room? I don’t believe Master Chioké wants to be interrupted.”
Irafa waved Arram into her quarters and closed the door behind him. When he returned, he found her talking with Varice. As soon as Arram handed his dreadful clothes to the beckoning Irafa, Varice said, “There’s a glassblower down the way who makes all kinds of things you wouldn’t expect. Do you want to go see? He’s under the arcade outside the gates, so we won’t get wet if we wear hats and cloaks.”
They returned from a fine afternoon of shop visiting and talk to take an early supper. Then, carefully, they looked in on Ozorne. Chioké was still present, reading in Ozorne’s chair, when they entered the room.
“Very good,” Chioké said, getting to his feet. “Irafa told me you were out. I want you both to know that he will sleep another day, maybe two. He has a cup and water beside his bed, as well as fruit and bread should he get hungry.” He turned back and blew out the candle he’d been using. “However, I doubt he will wake. Send a messenger for me if you are here when he does. I am in good hopes that the medicine will do the trick in restoring his normal state of mind.” He nodded at them, gathered his things, and left without bothering to close the door.
They both looked in at Ozorne, who was once again a lump of blankets and pillows. Varice tiptoed over and rearranged the pile so her friend’s nose poked into the open air. Then she turned to Arram and shrugged. “He’s the master,” she said with resignation. “I suppose it’s just you and me for breakfast for a while, then.” She waved and left Arram, closing the door behind her.
Two days later they were surprised at supper by a cheery Ozorne. “It’s still raining,” he announced as if he hadn’t been dark and gloomy for weeks. “Anyone want to race paper boats down the corridors?”
Arram and Varice both sighed in relief. Arram never remembered to ask Varice if she had seen the glow in Chioké’s medicine.