“You think this is fun, Tyron?” Wren muttered, looking up fearfully at the roiling dark cloud. What to do?
She could feel another lightning charge building up. Unlike a real thundercloud, this gray mass had a distinct feeling, a focused feeling: lightning was going to strike again, soon, right here.
Fear and panic nearly overwhelmed her, then she recalled the words she’d just spoken about keeping a calm mind. She forced everything out of her head except the problem at hand.
Protection spell.
Plunging her hand into her bag, she yanked out her book.
With trembling fingers she flipped the pages, seeking a recent lesson. She found the spell and spoke the words clearly, imagining a protective bubble curving overhead, covering her and the fallen magician. She saw it—and relief, mingled with a deep sense of accomplishment, flooded her when she finished and the spell held.
The cloud still hung above them, but the sense of threat had lessened. Just as she looked up, the lightning struck again, this time directly overhead. It crackled over her bubble and splashed a spectacular spray of liquid light on either side, driving into the ground. Wisps of smoke rose from the burned grass.
All right, my bubble’ll hold for now. But if THIS is an easy test, Tyron and I are going to have a few choice words very soon. For now, let’s just see who the joker with the lightning is.
She knew it wasn’t Master Falstan, because he still lay motionless on the ground. Forcibly she cleared her mind again and pulled out the brand-new scry-stone she had recently been given. With careful fingers she held the crystal up. Looking into it, she sought the magician whose magic still lingered outside her bubble.
What she saw was a fanged mask, which momentarily surprised her. Mages who don’t want to be scryed can make illusory faces, she thought, recalling another new lesson. But a good magician can look past the masks . . .
Wren knew she was good at scrying. She gritted her teeth, seeing past the mask to . . . to . . .
The other magician halted in the middle of a spell, the mask not hiding startlement. For an instant she caught a glimpse of a blurred face, then the magician vanished from the stone-vision. At the same moment the cloud overhead dissipated into swirling scraps of dark fog that disintegrated rapidly, leaving nothing but the trees, grass, still air—and Master Falstan’s form lying nearby. Since the magic connecting her to the unknown magician was gone, Wren knew that her scry-stone was now useless.
Bending over the fallen magician, Wren examined him worriedly. His face was white, his breathing slow and difficult. Alarm spread through her.
“Master Falstan? Sir?” she said, taking hold of his shoulder and shaking gently.
He did not stir.
All right, then, she thought, looking down at her palms.
They were sweaty. She wiped them slowly down her tunic, her thoughts speeding. She and Master Falstan were alone here, as far as she knew—unless that other magician was located somewhere nearby. She did not want to find out.
She reached into her bag again, then hesitated. Her instinct was to use magic to get them back to the school, but she had been forbidden to try transportation magic until she reached the next level. She already knew the spell, and she had even done it once—luckily for her, nothing bad had happened. But that was before she had known just how dangerous this kind of magic was.
Still, she could not see any other way out, so she crouched down with her bag in her lap, and with one hand she took a firm hold of Master Falstan’s arm. With her other she care-fully made the signs, a vision of the school’s Designation Room fixed in her mind.
The magic swept over them. There was a moment or two of grayness, and they transferred.
Wren gasped with relief, then shut her eyes. Vertigo whirled her vision. She had never transported another person before.
Their appearance set off an alarm inside the school, and almost immediately two senior magicians ran in, looking concerned.
“I hope I passed,” Wren croaked.
Sitting abruptly down on the worn carpet, she put her head between her knees.
o0o
“Never again,” Tyron said to Wren some time later. “I will never tell another student not to worry about the Basics Test.” He raised a hand solemnly. “From now on, I will do my best to frighten them out of their skins.”
They sat together in a small room at the school, waiting for Master Halfrid to return. As soon as Wren had related what had befallen her, the King’s Magician had gone directly to the secluded grove to try some kind of magic search while the other magicians busied themselves with the removal of the spell from Master Falstan.
And though Tyron was supposed to be teaching classes, he had stayed with Wren ever since. Feeling tired and dispirited, Wren began to wonder if they really believed her after all. “I suppose I’ll get blamed for doing magic I’m not supposed to know yet.”
“What?” Tyron asked, blinking.
Wren clamped her jaw shut. Just thinking she might be faulted for breaking those rules made her feel sick inside.
Tyron’s face changed from laughter to shock to horror, a variety of expressions on his foxlike face that any other time would have drawn at least a grin from her. Tyron was not one for hiding his feelings.
“You can’t be serious!” he exclaimed.
“Well, here you are, not that I don’t appreciate it, but you’ve missed at least two classes, just to watch over me like—like—” She gave up and shrugged.
“That’s in case whoever pulled that business on Falstan decides to come back and finish the job,” Tyron said. “Mistress Ferriam is staying with Falstan for the same reason, until they find out who that mysterious magician was. Meanwhile I’m here to protect you.”
Wren sighed. “So that’s why they were all so grim. At first I thought I was going to faint. Then I just thought I was going to lose my breakfast. And meanwhile they just kept asking me questions, some of them over and over again. Then I got dumped here. With you.”
Tyron thrust a hand through his unruly brown hair, making it stand up in all directions. “They don’t know what to think or how to act—nothing like this has ever happened to anyone on a Basics Test. At least within living memory. Except Connor’s situation, but that was different,” he added hastily.
Something in his changeable face alerted Wren, though, and she said in alarm, “They’re not accusing Connor? They couldn’t—” She stopped when she saw the dismay in his brown eyes. “But they can’t. Why?” she demanded.
“Imagine how I feel,” Tyron said. “He’s my best friend!”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Wren cried. “Connor doesn’t know any magic—or rather, it doesn’t work for him. And even if it did, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Ever! He even sent me a poem to cheer me up—”
Tyron hunched over, worry evident in every line of his bony form. “It doesn’t make sense to me either,” he said. “But apparently they have a reason. I understand he’s been in some trouble with his family lately, and they seem to think . . . “ He shrugged, unable or unwilling to finish his thought.
“Trouble made by others,” Wren said. “I’ve heard from Tess about the kind of trouble that skunk of a Garian causes.”
Tyron shook his head. “So maybe he’s getting back at everyone—”
“You don’t believe that?” Wren demanded.
“Of course I don’t,” Tyron retorted with some heat. “That’s what they are saying. So I have to sit here with you instead of helping them investigate, because they know I’ll defend him. Just like he defended me when we were both beginner students.”
“I didn’t know that,” Wren said. “What happened?”
“Haven’t you heard stories about Renic the Rotten?”
Wren smiled at the name. “I thought he was made up to scare us.”
“Oh, he was real, all right.” Tyron made a nasty face. “He was around during my first year at the school.”
“What happened?” Wren asked.
Tyron shrugged. “Well, there I was, a scrawny nine-year-old who loved to show off how much he knew. Connor was new, too, but he was popular, and he made friends easily. He could have stood aside when Renic started picking on me—a lot of other students did. They were all afraid of Renic, and some of them didn’t like me because I was younger but had already started moving ahead faster. Some of them were even too afraid to tell the teachers about Renic’s rotten tricks—like me.” He laughed. “I loved magic learning so much that my fear of somehow being blamed for my problems with Renic was greater than my fear of the bully himself. So I didn’t tell the teachers, either.”
“Why did he hate you so much? Just because you were ahead?”
“I was already learning illusions and I’d figured out some other things, but I wouldn’t teach him any tricks ahead of his group. Connor saw this going on and stood up to Renic. He even camped outside my room a few nights. And when it became obvious that Renic was getting worse, not better, it was Connor who went and told Halfrid.”
“The teachers hadn’t noticed?”
“Well, they had to some degree, but since he always attacked me when they weren’t around, they didn’t know how bad it was. I think they wanted to give him lots of time—in case he changed for the better. But Renic was awfully sneaky, and he lied a lot. So they threw him out. Last I heard he was prenticed at a stone quarry. I hope a boulder klonks him on the head.” Tyron added, “Might improve his outlook.”
“I wondered about that,” Wren said slowly. “Every-where I’ve ever been, you find all kinds of people. That usually means a plentiful supply of bullies and blowhards among the good ones. But—so far—not here.”
Tyron gave her a twisted smile. “Well, that’s no accident. None of the seniors want to be responsible for training somebody who’ll turn out to be a wicked sorcerer. That’s why you beginners spend all that time memorizing the laws and rules and discussing them endlessly, before you learn one real spell. The senior magicians learn more about you than you do about the laws and rules—though you’re not supposed to know that yet.”
“So you think I passed Basics?”
Tyron laughed. “You kidding? You handled that as well as any of us would have—maybe better than some.”
“I’m just sorry Connor couldn’t learn magic,” Wren said. “Even worse, though he just jokes about it, I get the feeling he feels bad as well.”
Tyron nodded soberly, staring off far beyond the wall.
“I know.” Then he sighed. “Well, I guess we—”
He stopped when the door opened and a short, balding man entered, his silvery hair and beard floating about his head.
“Master Halfrid!” Wren exclaimed in alarm.
The King’s Magician’s customary expression was one of merry goodwill. Now, however, he looked serious.
“Wren, do you recognize this handwriting?” He held out a sheet of folded paper, on which half of three lines of writing could be seen.
Wren couldn’t make sense of the words, but the tall, slanting letters and the flourishing capitals were instantly familiar.
“Easy,” she said. “That’s Connor—uh, Prince Connor’s handwriting. “
“You’re certain?” Master Halfrid asked.
“Well, I received a poem this morning in handwriting just like it, and it was signed by Connor,” she said.
“Poem?” Master Halfrid’s brows went up. “May I see it?”
“As it happens, I carried it with me. For a boost.” Wren pulled the letter from her tunic pocket and handed it over. “What’s wrong?”
The Master smiled a little as he read it, but when he handed it back he was serious again. “Maybe you should take a look at that.”
Wren unfolded the paper she’d been handed. On it was written:
It’s about time you fools learned what real sorcery can do. Unfortunately you and your precious school won’t survive the experience.
Wren’s mind went numb.
When she looked up from the note, Master Halfrid went on, “I found that on my desk just after you and Master Falstan disappeared. This was right after Prince Connor was taken into custody for having apparently attacked and knocked out his cousin.”
Wren dropped the paper to the floor. “I just don’t believe it!” she exclaimed.
Halfrid held up a finger. “Wait,” he said. “No judgments yet. Just observation. Tyron? Do you recognize it?”
Tyron bent and picked up the paper, then he asked for the copy of the poem. After a time he glanced up, looking confused. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “But I’m not sure what. Maybe it’s just that I’m too upset to think—”
“Exactly.” The Master smiled benignly. “Don’t we waste days of breath telling you that a calm and clear mind is most needed when things are at their worst?” He leaned forward and touched the scrap of paper containing the threat. “Feel that,” he said.
Tyron carefully felt the paper, frowning. Then his brown eyes widened. He held the paper out to Wren, who took it and rubbed her fingers over it.
“Not like that—feel,” Tyron said.
She shut her eyes and reached with her inner sense—and there was the faint glow of magic. Very distinct when she touched the paper, it disappeared when she lifted her hand away.
She opened her eyes. “What does that mean? Are we sensing leftover magic from when the letter was sent, Master Halfrid?”
“Wrong,” Tyron said, giving his head a shake. “That kind of spell would disintegrate almost immediately. This has that feel to it because the magic is still in force. In other words, somebody got hold of Connor’s handwriting and used it as a model to magic this note. Have you ever seen writing that even?”
Wren looked at the poem again and compared the two papers. She nodded, excitement growing as she saw the irregularities, the differing pen widths in the poem. “And he tried to write his best, you can see that. But this thing—not even Mistress Leila can write that neatly.” She looked up in surprise. “So somebody put this together to make sure Connor got the blame.”
“Correct,” Halfrid said.
Tyron looked grim. “I’m going to find our who, you can count on that.”
Halfrid raised a hand. “Gently, gently,” he said. “Remember, as yet our unknown magician does not know we are aware this letter is false. Shall we keep this to ourselves for a time?”
Wren said nothing, bur Tyron agreed. “What have you in mind?”
“For now, just this. You are nearly due for your weekly visit to the palace, are you not?”
Tyron groaned. “Standing around at formal court, learning etiquette! That’s the last thing I want to be doing when there’s—”
“There’s investigating to be done, and it’s being done,” the Master interrupted calmly, his usual good humor back. “As for your visit to court, this is a sublime opportunity for you to observe who might be interested in discussing the events of today.”
“Right,” Tyron said, snapping his fingers. At the thought of something definite to do, he straightened up, beaming with excitement. “I’d better go change into my good tunic.”
He vanished through the door.
Master Halfrid smiled at Wren. “I’m glad to say that Falstan is fine,” he said.
“What happened to him?” Wren asked. “Why did he fall down like that?”
“It was a sleep spell. He was too busy making spells for you, Wren, to realize something was amiss until he’d been put out. You did well, which was the first thing he said when he woke, I’ll have you know.”
He nodded in approval, and Wren gave a sigh of relief.
“We’ll have to postpone the next students’ tests until we get all this sorted out, I fear,” Halfrid went on. “Now to you.”
Instantly alarmed, Wren relaxed when she saw the smile on the Master Magician’s face.
“Mistress Leila told me that you intend to use the free time you’ve earned in a personal quest.”
Wren nodded. “I want to find out where I came from-- if I can,” she said, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a worn sheet of paper, saying, “Just after New Year’s I wrote to the orphanage where I was first brought, and someone copied out what was in their record book and sent it to me.”
She handed Halfrid the paper.
He squinted at the difficult handwriting.
“It’s pretty much what they told me all along,” Wren said. “Which isn’t much. Nothing was found with me, and I couldn’t talk. They named me Wren, and that was that.”
Master Halfrid tapped the paper. “According to this, if you wish to find out more, you must visit the Siradi Border Guards and look at the records written by the patrol who found you.”
“And that’s what I want to do,” Wren said. “Unless you’re about to tell me I can’t,” she added, looking at him doubtfully.
Master Halfrid shook his head. “You have earned your first break, and I don’t intend to interfere in your private pursuits, child. But I do have a request to make.”
“What can I do?” Wren asked eagerly.
Master Halfrid smiled at her in approval. “Here’s my idea . . . “