RETURNED to her bed's rich blankets and pillows, Liara told herself that Anisthe's statement had been one of comfort. And yet. . . . She found her eyes fixed on the dying coals of the fireplace, the shifting red glow like the gaping maw of hell, Anisthe's words seeming more a veiled threat.

When at last she slipped into slumber, she slept soundly and devoid of dreams. The morning came quickly, bringing with it a refreshed outlook. Liara had her answer.

Yawning, she turned to the window, blinking in the filtered morning rays, her mind on the day ahead, her heart surprisingly light. What Anisthe proposed was not altogether impossible. Stealing a book that Nagarath clearly didn't want would be far from the worst thing she'd done. And with luck, through cutting all ties with Dvigrad—with Limska Draga—she might finally be able to see the mystery of her origins from a new perspective. One that might provide answers which had thus far proved elusive. It's not as if Nagarath has shown himself to know anything. And besides, I'll be apprenticed. Even if Master Anisthe cannot help me, I shall soon be able to help myself.

A knock on the door startled Liara from her reverie, cutting short her growing excitement. A female voice called through the door, "Breakfast will be served in the main dining hall in half an hour, miss."

Liara swallowed her 'thank you,' having learned the previous day that one only commanded servants. Instead, she leapt from the bed, wondering how to make herself sufficiently presentable in the time allotted. A quick glance in the mirror told her that a splash of water and hairbrush would only go so far. And she had only the one dress, still crumpled and travel-worn in spite of Anisthe's neatening trick yesterday.

If only I knew how to do that one, Liara lamented, recalling the shocking rush of Anisthe's spell. It occurred to her that the mage had used no words, only flicking a finger at her—and casually, at that. Perhaps it was as simple as a shielding spell, requiring only thoughts and direction.

Frowning, Liara turned to her dress, searching deeply for the thread of her power.

~*~

Approaching the dining room, Liara caught a glimpse of Anisthe as he gazed out the window. Another of his servants stood at his elbow, apparently deep in conversation with the wizard. The sound of his voice sharpened as Liara drew closer, escalating until Anisthe drew his hand up quickly, as if intending to backhand the servant across the face. His face was purple with rage and Liara drew back in shock. Though she knew a master was allowed to hit his servants, it was nonetheless disconcerting to witness.

Standing unseen in the hall, she heard no telltale slap following the threat. But the mage's appearance—and the memory of what it had been—alarmed her. Careworn and haggard, he looked a good fifteen years older than he had the day before. The handsome young mage was gone. In his place, a man approaching middle-age and looking none too happy about it. Taking a deep breath, Liara endeavored to erase all signs of concern from her face and rounded the corner, hiding her surprise at finding Anisthe alone in the dining room, his back to her as he stared out over the sea. He turned, drawing a gasp from Liara.

The haggard look was gone. Anisthe's hair again showed the sheen of youth, the lines on his face smoothed and replaced by a healthy glow. Liara paused, wondering if what she thought she'd seen had been merely a trick of the light, or perhaps an ugly side effect of his rage. But whatever had so bothered him had passed, his smile as bright as ever.

He gave her a quick once-over. "You are a fast learner, Liara. Not to say that you weren't pretty enough, but your Art has done wonders for that dress."

Liara hid her flush of pride by turning to admire the spread on the table. While Nagarath dined on rustic bread, cheese, and herbal tea, Anisthe had laid out another feast fit for royalty. Eyes dazzled by the sparkling utensils, Liara hungrily gazed upon the platters of crusty breads, hard– and soft-cooked eggs, and cold cuts. Last night's fresh fish had become a fitting accompaniment to pungent cheeses, and more fresh fruit graced the table.

At Anisthe's invitation, she sat and allowed her plate to be filled by the two servers who had emerged from a shadowed corner alcove. Her toilette enhanced by her witching, Liara felt worthy of the service and strove to maintain the appropriate decorum, though she wanted to beam from ear to ear. A mage's apprentice at last.

"I presume you slept well?" Anisthe inquired in his rich, musical voice, his smile adding more light to the room than the early morning sunshine.

"Yes. Thank you."

The bed was too soft, she added silently, laughing at herself. If that was her only complaint . . .

"And so you think you'll be staying on here?"

Liara politely swallowed her mouthful before responding. She was certain he could hear the pounding of her heart from across the table. "Of course. Well, that is . . . if your offer of apprenticeship still stands. And I would need some sort of assistance in procuring the book."

Anisthe frowned slightly, raising a hand. A servant sprang forward, awaiting his master's orders. The mage addressed Liara, "You did not ward your rooms?"

She looked up in surprise followed by suspicion. "No, I—"

"Lesson One," Anisthe snapped, his smile fleeing. "A mage never leaves his rooms unwarded."

He inclined his head towards the servant who still stood at attention at his elbow. "Go to the lady's rooms and move her belongings to . . ." He paused to think. ". . . to the Onyx Room."

Bowing, the servant left.

"Of the three wizard's suites available here, your new quarters have the best lighting in the attached mage-room. But it is the smallest of them, unfortunately. I hope you don't mind sacrificing some comfort for the Art."

Liara nodded mutely, surprised once again by Anisthe's affluence. It appeared that he, too, desired her to stay. And yet he'd avoided answering her question about the book. Surely he didn't intend for her to walk all the way to Parentino. Once again, she found herself wondering if the owl's feather worked both ways.

She tried again. "Master Anisthe, if I am to retrieve that book from Nagarath, the one you mentioned when we were talking about mermaids—"

"Merfolk," he corrected. "The creatures may have a female-dominated population, but they greatly dislike having it pointed out more than necessary." He furrowed his brow in thought for a moment, and then, some conclusion apparently reached, called another servant over and whispered instructions into his ear.

"What, my dear, is it about merfolk that so intrigues you?" he inquired afterward, again seeming to take pleasure at redirecting the conversation.

"Well, mermai—merfolk. Are they, for instance, similar to werewolves?"

"What do werewolves have to do with merfolk?"

"For one thing, they're both human-like, so . . ." Liara shrugged. "How else could they exist except through a mage's mistake?"

"Hah!" Anisthe's mirthless laugh startled her. "Lesson Two. Is Magick borne of Men or Nature?"

She opened her mouth to answer and paused, trying to tease out any known instances of magick not involving a wizard's influence. None came to mind. It seemed that there was always someone pulling the strings, intentionally or incidentally. Magick might be a worldly force but, as Anisthe had said but yesterday, it was men who'd harnessed and used it.

"Wrong." Anisthe didn't wait for Liara's slow brain to arrive at an answer. "Trick question. It's neither."

"Neither? But where else could it have come from?"

"That, my dear, is a point of great debate amongst our more scholarly brethren. For the purposes of our discussion, it is sufficient to note the distinction. Werewolves, merfolk, and elves: what makes us think of them as magickal creatures versus, say, bears, robins, and cats?"

"Magickal creatures are different . . ."

"Different. But I am a man and also a wizard. Your village only knew you as 'different' based on their knowledge of your background. Neither of us carry an outward sign of the force within us. Our ability to manipulate magick, our reliance on it, marks us as outside of nature. Just like merfolk, werewolves, and the like."

"But . . . maybe mermaids are just . . . normal," Liara reasoned. "Werewolves came about via a mage's interference. Maybe merfolk are just very rare creatures."

"Creatures that shouldn't exist, Liara. Man is Man. Separate from Animal in his ability to reason and communicate. Merfolk cross that divide by being half-human, half-fish. And what makes you think werewolves were a mistake?"

The wicked grin on the war mage's face sent a shiver down Liara's spine. Black magicks. Her breath hitched in her chest as Nagarath's warning sounded in her memory. Angrily, she pushed it away. She'd learn it all. If only to spite him and his squeamish desire to stop all magicks save his own.

Anisthe shook his head in mock sadness. "You are a funny one. Quick to ascribe wizardry to simple things like the floating of a ship, but reluctant to acknowledge the existence of magickal beings like merfolk. You could use a great deal of instruction indeed. And so we come back to the question of my book."

"Yes, I—I haven't the power to go back the way I came. The owl's feather . . ."

Anisthe waved the concern aside. "I was not about to let you enter the dragon's den unarmed, my dear. I am used to putting my power into lesser vessels. But we will have to be careful, so as not to disturb the spells already at work on you. The ones that mark you as his apprentice."

"I'm not his apprentice," Liara corrected automatically. She really wished he'd stop saying that.

"Oh, but you are. I see his influence when I look at you. You work in his style, think with his logic. I would know; I once knew him intimately. Your very aura speaks of Nagarath."

This last caught Liara's ears, and she looked up sharply. Nagarath's aura? In fleeing Limska Draga, she'd put the question of auras behind her. After all, Anisthe too seemed keen on keeping his hidden. She had seen nary a glimmer on the war mage during the previous night's revelations, and had assumed that hiding one's signature was just something accomplished mages did. Did Anisthe know more about Parentino's wizard than he had so far let on? He and Nagarath had known each other, once upon a time. What had happened between them, exactly? Liara's curiosity grew and she leaned in, eyes alight.

"Liara, you've no idea how delighted I am to hear that you are willing—eager, even—to do what must be done. None least because I want—nay, must have—that collection of stories. You must understand that, when I knew the man, he was a puling weakling. Couldn't cast a spell without a book in his hand and hours of debate leading up to it. He ruined our education. I would not have him ruining yours.

"Did he tell you our apprenticeship was cut short? How he got in the way of a delicate and powerful bit of sorcery, the spell subsequently backfiring and causing the death of our mentor? His petty jealousy of my magickal power robbed me of the future I had planned. We had been friends. Friends, Liara. How wrong I had been about that miserable excuse for a mage."

Liara cringed involuntarily as Anisthe heaped more and more accusations upon Nagarath, his voice pitching higher as he spoke. Nagarath, of course, hadn't told her any such thing. But then, he'd always been reticent in matters of his past and was, at times, painfully shy of magecraft that he hadn't thoroughly examined. Slipshod methods wrapped in timidity. No wonder he needed so many books—and was forever damaging them. To hear Anisthe speak so freely answered many questions.

"So you see, Liara, I understand. I know what it is like to trust him, befriend him, and then learn the hard way of my mistake. You and I are very much alike."

Liara looked at Anisthe with new eyes, seeing now the mage who had built a home, a reputation, from nothing. Trusting in a friend only to have jealousy interfere. He did understand her. More than ever, she desired apprenticeship of this man. She felt it altogether too fitting.

Anisthe rose and walked over to her end of the table, reaching for the chain of a necklace that peeked through his collar. Pulling the amber pendant from the folds of his robe, he presented the object for Liara to see.

"A token. The symbol of an apprenticeship left unfinished."

Gently reaching out towards the pendant, she eyed the golden resin, inside of which was trapped a silver spider.

"All that you see around you, all of my magick save the barest thread, lives within the stone." He snatched it away before she could touch it, secreting the pendant beneath his robes once more. He stood back, eyes dark and brooding. Liara felt her breath return to her in a rush. She hadn't realized how close the mage had leaned in to show her his token.

"All you see here at work comes from that little lump of hardened sap. For years, I have channeled and stored my powers there. Building, saving, constructing the world as I want. With the archmage's death, I learned. I will not readily suffer a similar accident. I have more power than Nagarath has ever dreamed of. I would that you have the same."

"All of your power? In such a fragile bauble?" She focused her gaze on the chain at Anisthe's neck, anything to not look him directly in the eye while she questioned his judgment. Amber was well known for its natural compatibility with sorcery, but . . . "I knocked an amber cross against one of the shelves inside of my tree, and it cracked. Such a material is—"

"Beautiful? Delicate? Rare?" He gently lifted her chin to face him. "Yes, Liara, but I am not careless with my things. The very properties you decry are those that make my choice all the more rewarding. And now, though I have served kings and consorts, princes and empires, I am committed to—my loyalties are to—myself alone. Serve me and that changes. Share my power—nay, unlock your own—and I will see to it that magick bows to us."

Liara smiled up into his warm brown eyes, glimmering with illusions that made him seem younger, charming, more than a mere man, and felt her heart ease. No wonder Nagarath had been jealous of Anisthe. The golden sunshine itself seemed to bend to the war mage's command.

Next to him she felt . . . insignificant, yes. But special. This is what she'd been looking for her whole life. Not Nagarath and his dusty collection of books, his homespun living arrangements. Remembering the way he had collapsed when his own spells had pulled too much out of him, Liara realized there was simply no comparison.

She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped short as Anisthe's doorman entered the room, beckoning the mage to the side for a hushed conversation. Anisthe looked alternately pleased and annoyed. He finally dismissed the man, adding, "Do I need to do everything myself around here?"

As if remembering Liara, he turned to her, his beaming smile turning wolfish. "Ready for another lesson, girl?"

~*~

Anisthe's lesson apparently involved shopping for spell components, though why he thought Liara needed to accompany him was beyond her. Stepping out the door into the salt-bedewed sunshine, she crinkled her face against the brightness. Again, she leaned into his offered arm, deciding that Vrsar would always be too sunny and too crowded for her to ever feel at home. But then, with unlimited power, she could change things to her liking, could she not?

Luckily, the shop Anisthe needed to visit was set along the hill, far from the docks they visited the previous day, affording Liara all the view but half the winding steps downward. One more thing that could take getting used to, she observed, as they rounded another turn on the path. This feeling of constantly moving up or down, this brash exposure to the elements—and to think that rumors name the seaside as healthful. No wonder Anisthe spends so much of his Art improving upon his looks.

This last thought set her wondering again. How old was Anisthe? With the glimmers he cast about himself, it was hard to tell. He currently appeared several years younger than Nagarath to Liara's unpracticed eye. And though she hadn't gotten all that good a view of him that morning, she knew Anisthe was certainly downplaying some of his more weathered aspects. It occurred to her that, as the two mages had been schoolmates at one point—with Nagarath claiming the honor of youngest pupil—perhaps she had long been wrong in her assessment of Nagarath's age. He'd never alluded to it, and it had never occurred to her to ask. She'd simply classified him as 'older.' Not Phenlick-old, of course, but old enough to put a comfortable, respectful distance between mage and ward.

However, having seen Anisthe's tricks that morning, Liara wondered if perhaps spellwork was hard on the body and Nagarath's pepperings of gray were merely a sign of the wizard's disinclination towards making himself up. It would certainly be in keeping with his attitudes towards magecraft. Though not exactly consistent with his other attitudes regarding honesty and candor.

Left to her own devices as Anisthe greeted the shopkeeper warmly, Liara endeavored to hide herself behind a tall rack of spices, away from prying eyes. The memory of the previous day's cold curtsy from the woman in the street rose fresh in her mind as two gentlemen just outside the doorway put their heads together, whispering. She could feel their eyes on her as she moved about the small shop.

In fact, surreptitious glances had followed them the whole way there. Memories of Dvigrad resurfaced, the slights and knocks of years past still stinging. Back then, she'd fled, but now she was apprentice to a powerful war mage. Or soon would be. Impatience struck her—a restless urge to wait outside. But then she'd be fully visible to any number of gawkers.

Glancing back sourly, she saw that the men's gaze had turned elsewhere, though their hushed conversation continued. She followed their line of sight, only to note with some surprise that they had turned their attention to another young woman.

Could it be that they had been admiring Liara?

Curious to test her theory, she sidled towards the front window, keeping only half an eye to the store as Anisthe's conversation with the shopkeep turned heated. Then she stiffened, her aura tingling. Preoccupation with the flirtations of strangers forgotten in a flash, she tightened her focus on the enchantments at work in the room. The war mage was using magick. Strange how near his power felt to her own. She settled back to watch and learn.

While she could not tell what exactly Anisthe was casting—for he used no words, no gestures—she could see the effect it had on the store's owner, giving her a good idea of the spell's intent. She watched in astonishment as the man's face went from naked anger to abject adoration. Liara had never seen someone so eager to please, so willing to make a bargain. She stifled a giggle when the man actually bowed to Anisthe, thanking him profusely for his business, even as the mage continued to verbally thrash the oblivious merchant.

But it wasn't funny. Liara berated herself for finding amusement in this clear abuse of power. What Anisthe was doing was unkind. Unfair. Is that what all power is? Advantage; disadvantage. Was there a way to wield it so as not to cross that line? And where is said line? Disturbed, she decided to wait outside after all while the wizard turned to give instructions to the delivery boy for his copious purchases.

Anisthe soon exited the shop, looking rather pleased with himself. He waved Liara over, offering his arm.

Liara did not accept, walking stolidly beside him instead. "You ensorcelled him."

"It helped, did it not?" Anisthe countered, clearly at ease with his manipulation. "Don't look at me like that, Liara. I am entitled to use my abilities as I see fit. Lesson Three."

Liara gawked in disbelief. She had assumed there'd be some admission of guilt or remorse. He was acting as though he'd done nothing wrong.

"Would you ask a wolf to refrain from using his teeth during a hunt because his intended kill was a defenseless rabbit?" Anisthe challenged. "Would he be allowed to only use his cunning, depending on the size or speed of the game?"

"That's a bad comparison—"

"Is it? How are our abilities different from physical prowess, speed, intellect?"

"It just doesn't seem fair. I mean, it's not like people—regular people—can defend against magick."

"So, you're implying that it would be forgivable, would be fair, if I were to bespell you?"

Angry now, Liara accused, "How do I know you haven't?"

"Now that," Anisthe's voice was low and firm, "goes against my honor."

Liara stopped short and threw her hands in the air with exasperation, not quite caring who witnessed her row with the obstinate mage. "That makes even less sense."

"No, Liara. A mage respects his own. I would find it exceedingly rude if a fellow mage were to attempt to ensorcell me unless I were his enemy or he mine."

Liara searched Anisthe's face, measuring him in this new light. "So . . . you haven't tried to bespell me?"

"You insult me to ask that. And honestly, I could not, even if I wanted to. As I have said before, you are too closely aligned with Nagarath—who, despite his shortcomings is, at times, a very accomplished wizard when he sets out to be. Had he been able to keep you with him, far from me, I have no doubt he would have."

Even in the warm coastal sunlight, Liara felt a chill pass through her. No doubt. She closed her face, her mind, to the words, earning Anisthe's misinterpretation.

"Oh, you think I lie? Liara, he—" Anisthe bit off the words, running a hand through his golden-brown hair, regret carving lines into his face. "No, I cannot say it . . ."

"Say what?" Liara felt her own face go white. Fear prickled down her back, her arms. Something in her screamed for him to stop, begged her not to ask. Observations, half-forgotten phrases reassembled themselves in her mind. A dread beyond her animosity towards Nagarath, his misdeeds and misdirections, gripped her.

Anisthe shook his head, still clearly struggling. The pause was agony. When at last the dam burst, flooding emotion into his face, his voice came out a hiss. "Have you seen his aura, girl?"

"What do you mean?"

Anisthe looked taken aback, anguish lining his handsome features. He whispered, "My dear, I thought that's why you left Dvigrad."

"I told you the trouble in Dvigrad—"

"—had no witnesses left but Nagarath," Anisthe completed. "And it brought you closer to him, did it not?"

The image of blackened patches on a gray stone wall flashed into Liara's head. Murder by magick. Her mind had taken up the issue over and again. She'd rejected it as preposterous, finding other ways to hate Nagarath. But here Anisthe echoed her own fears, and him unknowing of the truth of what she'd seen. Again, the warning sounded in her heart, begging for a way out of what had to come next.

Scared, she shook her head, mentally backing away from Anisthe's words and physically shrinking from the war mage. "Stop it."

"Has he hidden his aura from you, Liara?"

Her voice came out small. "Yes."

"But he allowed you glimpses of your own?"

"Only because I pressed him." The warning became a buzz, became a roar.

"Because they're the same."

The world was crashing down on her under the weight of Anisthe's declaration. The mage was stealing the air from her, killing her with that one sentence. It wasn't possible. It simply couldn't be. And still Anisthe continued, his verbal assault hammering Liara as she fought the growing blackness in her vision, her hands blindly seeking for a place for her to crumple over, to get off of her wobbly legs. What she found was a low stone wall. She gasped, "No."

"Yes, Liara. Your aura. Same as his. Magickal Law The First, Number One."

"Magickal power mimics the Magickal signature . . ." Liara recited, habit having made the response rote.

". . . of the originating power. He had to hide it from you, Liara, else you'd see the truth. Why else would he be in Limska Draga all those years? Take you in? Then refuse to disclose certain truths?"

Why else indeed? Liara slumped against Anisthe's steadying arm, sick with the knowledge that Nagarath—her mentor, her friend, and protector—could actually be the father-in-magick she'd sought all these years. Deep within, the same voice that had shouted a warning now crowed victory. She was right—Anisthe would lead her to all of her answers. And it made so much sense. She really, truly, had been blind.

'There's something. Something of him in you.' Anisthe had been trying to tell her all along. Hot tears streaked down her cheeks, a grief greater than anything she'd ever felt choking her so that she could hardly voice a protest. "It's not true."

"Your presence here begs to differ. . ."

As Anisthe gently pulled the sobbing girl into his arms, she let herself cry in earnest. While she'd never been under the illusion that the attack on her mother had been anything but terrible, finding her father had become a point of pride with Liara. Some part of her imagined a happy homecoming, a partnering of interests—her and her progenaurae against the world.

Meeting Nagarath had buried that dream, magecraft becoming yet another practicality—and a dangerous one at that. Under his roof, she'd learned to love those she'd left rather than seek revenge. Within the walls of Parentino, Liara had found trust and empathy.

And all of it, lies. All save one. She really did have magick.

She recalled her shock at encountering Nagarath's spell books for the dark arts. Her aura had resonated with them. Did they contain the enchantments used in conjuring the creatures that had burned the town and raped her mother? Was she to see the volumes as brothers, sisters?

Is that what I am to him? Another book for his library? Some magicked item he felt entitled to claim?

It was over. She'd left. And she could stop searching, her questions finally answered. But what would she do now? How would she fill the howling emptiness inside of her?

Liara's voice came low and brittle. "I hate magick."

"No, you don't." Anisthe leaned back, freeing Liara's tearstained face from his robes.

"All right, I don't hate it. But right now I hate something," she sniffled, indecorously wiping her nose with her sleeve. She shook her head at the offered handkerchief. She was in a mood to go it alone.

"You came to me wanting to prove yourself—to him, to the world. If that is something you still want, I can give you that kind of power. Perhaps we—"

"I hate him. I want him dead. I want to kill him," Liara wailed, hysterical. Her face in her hands, she turned from the mage and curled herself into a miserable ball.

Anisthe's answer seemed to come at her from a distance. "Why don't you?"

The question danced down her spine like icy fingers. Liara looked up, startled. "I couldn't. Even if I could, I couldn't. Destroying him destroys me."

Shaking her head, she added, "Maybe it would be a good idea. I'm just a mistake anyway."

"It can be done," Anisthe promised, reaching out to lift Liara's face to his. "And with no peril to your existence. I can make it possible."