Cosmas nodded. “It’s a very good thing we are pursuing this course of study with you, then,” he said gravely. “I know it’s a great deal of work. It leads to more difficult courses in the Upper Academy, too. Still, they will keep that busy mind of yours happy, as they will those of Ozorne and Varice. You three won’t be bored. Exhausted, but never bored.” He smiled cheerfully at Arram, who found that he was smiling back.
“Now,” Cosmas went on, reaching for a document and an apparently heavy pouch that were on the corner of his desk, “I have had correspondence with your mother and grandfather over the winter, through the Council of Mages in Tyra. We have come to a different arrangement with them as regards your education.”
“Sir?” Arram was puzzled.
“You see, it is impossible for us to educate you properly, as your talents demand, while asking for varying amounts of fees from your family to cover materials and books, depending on what you must study in the coming terms,” Cosmas explained. “Even if they approved each course of instruction—and there are some that have refused to allow their youngsters to take certain classes—”
Arram grimaced. Last autumn Varice’s father had ordered that she was to have no more classes in cooking magic, calling it “nonsense.” Princess Mahira had forbidden Ozorne to study the part of a history class that covered the end of slavery in the Northern Lands. She said it was “seditious poison” and threatened to complain to the emperor. Arram had always worried that his own family might not be able to afford his education in a bad year, but he knew they would never forbid a particular class.
“We will not allow your schooling to be vulnerable. Thus…” Cosmas offered the parchment to Arram. “This states that your education from this point onward—supplies, housing, and class fees—is assumed by the university. On the first day of the interval between terms, you come to me. I will give you a clothing and spending allowance. Here.” He gave the pouch to Arram. “Your books and supplies will be delivered to your room, just as Ozorne’s are, the day before term begins.” He leaned back and folded his hands on his small round belly. “A paper inside that pouch explains everything, including your classes for summer term.” He smiled. “You appear dazed.”
Arram drew a shuddery breath. He was a little dazed. “My parents…,” he murmured.
“They have agreed to everything,” the headmaster reassured him.
Arram peeked into the pouch. It was heavy with silver thaki coins.
“New summer garments first,” Cosmas advised. “But buy yourself something—several somethings, in fact. You’ve worked hard. Perhaps let Varice do the bargaining when it comes to clothes.”
Arram looked at Cosmas. “I don’t understand!” he said, baffled. “Why me? What did I do that day in water magic that makes me worth so much attention?”
Cosmas sat back in his chair. “Actually, we do this for others, students with talent who don’t have wealthy families. But…Great Mithros, did no one tell you?”
Arram shook his head. “Not really, sir.”
Cosmas rubbed his forehead. “Lad, however you did it, you reached through the floor, through the foundation of the building, and deep into the earth, breaking through the protective shield under the university. Then you gathered water from the lake beneath us, miles below. If Sebo and I had not stopped you, you might have flooded the entire building! What occurred is called a flare. It happens with young mages who will manifest great strength once they mature. You may have other such flares as time goes on. We are watching for them now, and your masters are stronger than most. Youngsters with your potential—and your intellect—are worth extra trouble.”
Arram felt his cheeks go hot with embarrassment. Cosmas had to be mistaken—though certainly Girisunika had not drawn the water into the dish. She had not forgiven him after all this time, but glared at him whenever they passed each other in the halls.
“I hope I live up to your plans for me,” he finally said shyly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cosmas said, rising to his feet. Arram understood that this uncomfortable meeting was over and scrambled up, only to trip on the leg of his chair. Cosmas caught him as he pitched forward and set him upright, chuckling. “There you go,” he said as Arram got both feet under him. “You’ve grown enough that it must be difficult to keep track of your legs, eh? Now study hard.
“Oh.” Cosmas tapped the purse. “And I would leave most of that with the bursar. Draw out what you need when you wish to shop. Run along—don’t waste your week off!”
Arram went, with an assortment of thank-yous. His first stop was in fact the office of the academy’s bursar: the purse felt conspicuous on his belt. He was glad to hand all but fifteen thakis over to the clerk, accepting a receipt for the rest from her.
He was wandering back to his room, considering what to do next, when Ozorne found him. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” the older boy exclaimed, clapping Arram on the shoulder. “My lady mother has sent my allowance for the month. Let’s find Varice and go into town. What do you say?”
“Master Cosmas said I need to buy clothes,” Arram mumbled, looking down at his knee-length breeches.
Ozorne tugged on his own tunic hem. It was supposed to come to the tops of his calves and only covered his knees. “It seems you aren’t the only one who needs a new wardrobe, and quickly. I wager we’ll find Varice with her kitchen friends—come along.”
The afternoon was fun once they finished the dull work of choosing cloth, being measured, and bespeaking new clothes at Varice’s favorite tailor. They prowled the booksellers, finding more than a few volumes they could not do without, ogled the jewelry sellers’ booths, watched jugglers, and attended the latest play.
After a wonderful supper they were on their way out of the market when Arram saw a pastry seller’s cart and halted. “I have to do it,” he said, digging a coin from his depleted purse. “He has tassen pastries, those three-cornered ones? Do you want tassen to take back with you? He has poppy, and it looks like apricot—”
Ozorne’s hand clamped on his arm. “Don’t,” he said fiercely. “Look at that seller—the blue headcloth, and the star pendant. He’s a filthy Sirajit. He probably put dung in them, or piss. We don’t buy from Sirajit pigs.”
Arram didn’t protest. By now he had learned that Ozorne could not be shaken from his suspicion of anyone he thought was Sirajit. Arram only gave the pastry cart a yearning look as Ozorne pulled him away. Passing, he could see the vendor stood straight, holding on to his pride in the face of the students’ snub.
Once they reached the university, Ozorne stalked off, leaving Arram to escort Varice to her room. At her door she told him, “Don’t do that again, not if you can help it. You can see how it upsets him.”
“I didn’t even know those cakes are Sirajit things,” Arram protested. “Mother bought them all the time. This was the first I’ve seen them since I came here. Of course I won’t upset Ozorne, but the poppy seed ones are so good.”
Varice grinned. “I love the apricot ones. I tell you what—I’ll ask one of the cooks to get some, and we’ll just hide them from Ozorne.”
Arram gave her a coin large enough to buy a number of pastries. “You are wonderful, Varice!” he told her gratefully.
“I know,” she replied, twirling before she entered her dormitory.
Arram began the walk to his room, thinking about what a good friend Varice was. It wasn’t long before, to his dismay, his member added its opinion, if not of his pretty friend, then of girls in general. Fortunately, his shopping satchel covered the bulge in his breeches, and the inconvenience shrank by the time he reached his room.
—
Two days later he and Ozorne went star watching with permission from the housekeeper. They lay head to head on the stretch of green behind the menagerie buildings, where most torchlight didn’t reach.
“I saw the strangest thing the other day,” Arram began. “This fellow was at his desk, and his—his…” This was his best fri
end, and he couldn’t even say the word. “Below his belt. His, um, manhood, got…large. He didn’t even have his hands there.”
Ozorne moaned. “Oh, that,” he said with amusement and despair. “But—just a moment. Didn’t you have the talk, the one they give to the twelve-year-olds…? No, wait, that won’t be until the autumn term.”
He fell silent for a short while until Arram said impatiently, “Ozorne, what talk?”
His friend shook his head. “I suppose…Well. They teach this to the twelve-year-olds when autumn term begins. You’ll love it; everyone makes noise and they won’t sit still….Really, you’d think our clever instructors would know that if you were so far ahead on everything else you might be far ahead on this! Sometimes these mages aren’t practical, have you noticed?”
“Why? I’m not very practical,” Arram reminded his friend.
“Very true. Listen, then. This fellow—the thing with his member happens to most of us eventually. We could be looking at dirt and it will happen, or test questions, or things that have nothing to do with canoodling. Mother had our healer talk to me about”—he made his voice deeper—“Becoming a Man the last time I was home. We start to get wet spots on our sheets or loincloths, too.”
“Wet spots?” Arram asked, horrified. He hadn’t wet the bed since he was a baby!
“Because we have sex dreams,” Ozorne explained. “Our members practice for the real thing. That has to be a gift from the gods, because bedding someone is all adults who aren’t mages talk about. The liquid, that’s what makes babies when it’s put in a woman.”
“Why is life so complicated?” Arram whispered.
“Oh, don’t fuss. We’ll get to try it with a lover eventually—Look! A shooting star!”
Arram watched the stars fall, awed, wondering which god was sending a fiery love letter to another god, or even to a mortal. It happened sometimes: he’d read enough stories about it. A burst of stars passed over, drawing sighs of wonder from both lads.
They were sharing a bottle of grape juice when a group of students Ozorne’s age walked by. One of them looked toward the two boys and said something that made the others laugh, before they wandered on.
Arram glanced up and noticed his friend’s closed look and clenched fists. Hearing the ugly thing the older boy had said, Arram murmured, “The highest mark that one will get is his certificate in tree worm magic.”
Ozorne snorted. “Is that meant to console me?”
Arram assumed his most innocent tone. “Don’t you like tree worms?”
The prince looked at him. “One day they’ll pay for that.” He took a drink from a flask he’d kept tucked away and offered it to Arram. “It’s only elderberry wine. My aunt married in Galla, and she sends casks of the stuff to my mother for ailments.”
Not wanting to seem rude, Arram tried a sip and grimaced. He handed the bottle back. “You know they advise us not to drink or use drugs that affect our thinking. Our Gifts.”
“Elderberry isn’t strong! I just like the taste— Look, are you going to turn into a dull dog?” Ozorne shifted onto his side to glare at Arram, who swiftly denied any possibility that he would get boring. Finally Ozorne waved him silent and asked, “So did you want to ask something?”
Arram took a breath and hoped his friend wouldn’t get angry again. “Why do some people call you the leftover prince? I don’t mean to upset you, but I’d like to know.”
Ozorne sat up, sighing. “Oh, that stupid thing. When I was small, apparently I told strangers I would be emperor someday. First my father heard. He said there were plenty of princes ahead of me. Then the emperor found out.” Ozorne smiled grimly. “He sat me on his lap before all the court and pointed out every prince ahead of me in the line of succession.”
Arram frowned. “That wasn’t very kind.”
Ozorne shrugged. “It was honest. He said with so many heirs available, I was just a leftover.”
Arram remembered something from history class. “But there aren’t seven heirs, are there? One dead of a heart attack, one of the Sweating Sickness, your father…”
Ozorne took another drink of the wine. “My father. Someday I will build a statue to his name and place it in the Square of Heroes, at the palace. You’ll see.”
“I believe you,” Arram told him firmly. He believed Ozorne could do anything. His friend had spirit. His eyes had fire when he spoke.
Ozorne gripped Arram’s shoulder. “We’ll show them all, won’t we? Oh, look! Here comes a whole storm of stars! It’s the gods. They’re telling us we’ll succeed!”
—
After lunch the first day of the summer term, Arram found that he was keeping pace with Ozorne as he hurried to class. Varice, too, was trying to keep up.
“Where are you off to?” he asked his friends. They were close to the end of one of the open-sided galleries, next to a garden full of pungent herbs that practically threw their scent into the students’ faces.
“Here,” Ozorne said, opening the door to the last room. Arram checked the door’s number against his schedule; it was the same.
“Mine too,” Varice told him, and shoved him inside ahead of her.
“Good afternoon, you three,” a cheerful, familiar voice greeted them as Arram blinked away the light spots summoned as they passed from the bright outside to the shady room. “I hope you aren’t too sleepy from your meals to concentrate on your work.”
It was Master Cosmas. Arram grinned. He was going to share the master with his friends.
“Be seated,” he directed, pointing to a long table and various stools placed around it. There were three slates on the table, with three small boxes. As Arram, Ozorne, and Varice took their seats, Cosmas pushed a slate toward each of them, followed by a box. Since he was closest to Varice, he opened the box before her. It revealed sticks of chalk.
“Are you settled?” he asked. All three of them nodded. “Draw the most perfect circle you can manage.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and walked around the table, observing them. Arram broke two pieces of chalk before he realized he could just use a short piece instead of breaking more long ones. Then he and Ozorne spent time drawing curves and rubbing them out because they weren’t smooth or circular enough.
At last Cosmas raised a hand. “As you lads can see, Varice has done better by far—why is that, young lady?”
She looked at her circle and frowned. “When I help in the kitchens, they often put me to tracing the circles for the pastry cooks.” When she noticed the boys’ baffled looks, she explained, “All those cakes and pastries that are perfectly round, and the circles of spice on top of dishes—someone has to draw them in heavy paper and cut them out.”
“Why not use round plates as patterns?” Arram asked.
Varice made a face at him. “Because the edges aren’t even.”
“And magic depends on perfection,” Cosmas interrupted. “A mage must be able to create a perfect circle on the ground, in the air, on paper or chalkboard—anywhere. Arram, your hand wiggles.”
Arram hung his head.
“Ozorne, your lines are too short, and when you begin again, you don’t quite match,” Cosmas said. “When you go to work the spell, you will either have it break free of your control, or you will have to put extra Gift into evening the lines, just as Arram’s spell will go everywhere. Varice, you must learn to do your circles more quickly.”
She nodded. “Yes, Master Cosmas.”
The old mage stood. “Now, I would like to see nine circles of the same diameter on those slates. I fully understand you may not have all nine by tomorrow, or by the day after, but each of you must have nine circles, all perfect, before we move onward. You may not use your Gift, nor a round object.” He went to the desk in the corner and sat on the comfortable chair behind it, lacing his fingers over his belly. “Wake me when the bells sound for end of class.” He closed his eyes.
The three students looked at one another, dumbfounded at a teacher who napped durin
g class. Finally they returned to work. Cosmas began to snore softly.
When the bells started to ring, they made noise as they gathered their belongings. Cosmas yawned and waved goodbye. “I will see you here tomorrow,” he told them as he struggled out of his chair.
They emerged into the open-sided corridor. The sun was baking the university. “That was…instructive,” Ozorne remarked, trying to fit his slate into his bag without smearing the marks on it.
Varice watched, smiling. The inside of her bag was filled with a number of smaller bags secured together, each with a different purpose. She was the only one of the three who could find everything in her carrybag right away. “I’ll tell you two what,” she offered as Arram finally thrust his slate and chalk into his own carrier, wiping off most of the last hour’s work. “I’ll get both of you the needed materials for a cloth container for your slates and chalks. I’ll even help you start to sew the proper bags, but you do most of the work yourselves.” She walked into the next room, nose in the air.
“Do we have a choice?” Arram asked Ozorne woefully. He could see what remained of the marks on his slate rubbing off onto the rough inside of his leather bag.
Ozorne sighed. “Not really, no. Unless you want to pay a seamstress to do it if she has time.” He walked into the room after Varice.
When Arram stepped over the doorsill, he halted abruptly, colliding with Ozorne’s back. His friend was frankly gawping at their new instructor. Arram knew her as the radiantly beautiful Master Dagani, who had been so kind to him the day he’d flooded his classroom. After a long time of only glimpses of her in passing, he saw that her beauty was enough to knock a fellow breathless, as it had done to Ozorne. She wore her wavy black hair pinned up in the heat. Her thin white silk tunic clung to her scarlet master’s robe. A gold-embroidered silk belt was wrapped several times around her waist, displaying a number of small vials decorated with vivid paints and gems.
Arram gently kicked Ozorne and bowed. “Master Dagani, greetings,” he said, trying to ignore Varice’s soft giggles.
“Welcome to my class in illusions.” Dagani came forward and cupped Arram’s cheek in her hand. “You look far better than you did the day we first met,” she said in her musical voice. “But you should take a breath and concentrate on your Gift. It is escaping your control again.”