“I’d love to,” he said wearily, and not without truth. “But I can’t. One of the novices is being a stubborn little vixen. I recruited her, so they want me at a meeting. That’s all.” He nibbled and growled fiercely, but a dressed-up daddy was much less fun than a giant sea otter. The youngsters went racing back to their mother.
Jool pulled a sulky face. “Hurry back, lover.” She became a fury monster again as she was buried under the shrieking pack. The illusion was a minor magic he’d given her to amuse the kids. It was well within permissible limits. Major sorcery was forbidden; it would distract the archons and the Keeper.
“Best invitation I’ve had all day,” he promised, and went striding off across the sands.
He’d been a farm boy. The College had provided a suitably homey Place for him, as it did for all recruits. When he’d chosen a fisherman’s daughter, though, he’d asked for a Place more in keeping with her upbringing. The ancient pixie tradition of honoring the site of the first coupling would have required them to live at his Place. He had not wanted his friends to think that he—an urbane, sophisticated resident of the College—was bothered by such rustic superstition. After all, a goodwife spent all her time at home, while in those days he’d been a recorder, traveling all over Thume. Now he was an archivist, and had work to do in the Scriptorium most days. He had never regretted the move to the coast, especially on fine salty mornings like this one.
As he left the beach behind, the dunes gave way to moorland and sedge marsh, the sand dwindling to patches and then disappearing altogether. Soon his feet trod a broad white gravel path, winding over the heath ahead until it became the Way itself and then he was encased in sorcery, unable to perceive the ambience. He felt confined and blinded, but that always happened. He called up a mental image of the Meeting Place and strode along at an easy pace. He was in no hurry, although he would be crossing the entire width of Thume, from the shores of the Sea of Sorrows to extreme east; no journey on the Way took very long.
He felt he ought to be rehearsing his defense, yet he could think of no reason why he should need a defense. He’d done exactly what had been required of him. He had been diligent and meticulous, working his assigned area in the Progiste Foothills, month after boring month, talking with all those peasant bumpkins, noting who among the Gifted families had died, which youngsters had kept Death Watch, checking for Faculty, reporting back to the archivists. He had done exactly what a recorder was supposed to do, no more and no less. He had a commendation in his file.
His assignment to the Progistes had been a compliment in itself. His superiors had passed on a warning from the Keeper that there had been a major battle on the other side of the mountains, Outside, and that recorders in the area must keep an eye open for refugees sneaking into Thume. Horses climbed trees with more success than intruders ever evaded the archons’ watch, but the posting to that place at that time had been more than pure routine, a sign of trust.
When he had picked up rumors of the Thaile child and her occult vision of the battle, he had remembered the warning and gone at once to investigate. At once! He made a mental note of that important phrase. He had seen at once that her Feeling was extraordinary. He had given her all the necessary instruction, to her and her father. Perhaps he had been a little harsh with the old man, but he had not strayed beyond permissible limits of discipline. He had taken time to explain very carefully to the child herself. She had shown no unusual symptoms of rebellion.
He had absolutely nothing to apologize for, nothing to fear.
Any reprimands were going to settle on someone else’s performance record, not his.
As it approached the Meeting Place, the Way wound through thick cypress forest, gummy-scented with the trees’ response to spring. It emerged into mixed woodland under a veiled sky. The sun shone diffusely, but cheerfully enough. The air sparkled with life and dampness.
Jain’s mind drifted back to Jool. She definitely suspected. Why should it matter to her if he indulged in an occasional idle affair? Lots of his friends did. What was the use of being a sorcerer if you couldn’t enjoy a few fringe benefits? Why should she care? He wasn’t going to walk out on her and the kids, after all. Seven years since their first loving, half a year since he had become a full sorcerer and been promoted to archivist. That fourth word of power must have been a weak one. As an adept he had been exceptional; as a mage still above average, but the final word had not made him the truly powerful sorcerer he had expected. That rankled. He still found it hard to believe that fate should have been so unkind. He might very well remain a lowly archivist all his days. Like Mearn.
Like Mistress Mearn, who had summoned him to this stupid meeting. Would he become bitter, like her? He hoped not. Mearn had never married, which suggested that she had been a sourpuss even in her youth. Her crabby disposition might also explain why she had not been promoted to higher rank, for her power was certainly adequate, much greater than his. Another possibility was that no one else had ever wanted her job as Mistress of Novices. He knew from personal experience how the old cat enjoyed bullying the kids; he still found himself deferring to her. Mearn undoubtedly had enough power for higher rank, even if she lacked the temperament. Power depended on Faculty. Faculty was something one was born with, or without.
The Thaile child, for example, had considerable Faculty. Even a single word of power—one feeble, attenuated “background” word—had given her an astonishing talent, an occult talent, not just some useful mundane ability. With three more words, she would undoubtedly be a very puissant sorceress. Forty years from now she would likely be an archon. If she was truly extraordinary, she might ultimately become Keeper. Why did she have to be such a stubborn little minx about it? How could Jain possibly have known that she would run away instead of coming to the College as he had directed her? She had not been plotting rebellion that first day he had met her. He was certain of that.
It was not his fault that the archivists had not noted her absence for so long. He had still been a recorder then.
It was not his fault that she had gotten herself with child in the meantime, sired by some nonentity of a peon not even from a Gifted family.
And it was certainly not Jain’s fault that she had refused to go to the Defile with the other novices last night. Everyone went through the Defile! He shivered. The Defile was not a happy memory for anyone, and it would undoubtedly be worse for her with her strong Faculty than it had been for him, but she could not know that.
Stubborn little harpy!
Then the Way had brought him to the Meeting Place, and there it became only a mundane path again. Again he became conscious of the ambience, the other-world, the shadowy plane of the occult.
All around the clearing, spring flowers flamed in brilliant fresh hues. White swans floated on the lake, and the grass was green enough to hurt the eyes. Here and there people strolled or lounged on benches—gossiping, flirting, relishing this fine morning. Perhaps a score of them in all, spread around the glade, none looking more than twenty-five or thirty, young and finely dressed and happy. In the ambience he could see them as they really were, and all the repair work done on gray hair and sagging breasts and wrinkles.
Mearn was standing on the far side of the lake with a blocky-shaped man Jain did not recognize. He set off along the white gravel path toward them. He supposed Mearn would be her usual well-dressed self, but she was too far off for him to make out details of her dress without using farsight. In the ambience her occult image was nasty and scrawny, admittedly very solid-seeming, which was an indicator of her Faculty. She had well-pointed pixie ears, but that was about all she could boast of. Her hair was piled neatly on the top of her head to make her dumpy form seem taller, but her eyes were an ugly brown, sort of mudcolor, not good pixie gold. Today they conveyed undoubted worry. Novice trouble was Mearn trouble.
Probably do her a lot of good, humility-wise.