Knights Magi (Book 4) (11 page)

The son of a seaknight was wild-eyed as he frantically looked around for his opponent.  His body had yet to catch up to his reflexes, and while he swung his blade in a passable strike, Tyndal was far beyond its reach.  Instead he put his body in line with Kaffin’s, extending his leg so that the boy tripped over his thigh. 

His practice sword was flung away – and to his horror, Tyndal realized its trajectory would carry it directly into the unprotected crowd.

Cursing to himself, Tyndal realized what he had to do to avoid catastrophe.  He leapt over Kaffin’s stumbling body and made an effort to get to the sword before it landed.  He made it with little time to spare, even in his augmented state.  He grabbed the wooden blade just before it collided . . . with the very pretty face of Estasia, the Imperial student he’d met the day before.

She must have come at the commotion, he realized, not knowing it was he who was creating it.  Grinning broadly, he couldn’t resist showing off.  He continued to hold the wooden sword in one hand, but tucked his own under his arm before leaning casually on the fence that surrounded the yard.  He also took a moment to thoroughly smell the tantalizingly girlish scent of the dusky lass and appreciate her pretty features up close and in the daylight.  Only then did he drop the combat augmentation.

“I just
knew
you couldn’t stay away from me,” he said to her, casually, while the four boys behind him tumbled into the sand, their helmets ringing.

“EEP!”
Estasia squealed in surprise, startled.  When she realized who the speeding warrior was, she blushed, then frowned
. “You!”

“Me,” Tyndal admitted, charmingly, as he lowered the carelessly flung sword.  “Just saving the day.”

“You!” she repeated.

“And your face,” Tyndal added.

“You
. . . I . . .” the girl sputtered.

“Excuse me, won’t you?” he asked, sweetly, then turned to face his opponents and address their performance.  “Kaffin, you were bloody awful, and you were the best of the lot.  If you don’t keep your feet under you, why have them?  Stanal, if you don’t hang on to your sword, don’t expect to keep it.  And you two?  Bloody pathetic.  If your sires paid for swordmasters, I hope they got refunds.  Daris, I could have handed you your head, you were so slow, and Bandran, you .
. . you just need help,” he said, sadly.

The crowd burst into applause and cheers.  Tyndal felt a little foolish accepting them – this wasn’t difficult magic to do, just obscure.  Who taught warmagic at a scholarly Imperial academy?  Why would they need to?

But he didn’t mind the attention.  Even Estasia had to admit she was impressed, although she spun it into a technical vein that meant she didn’t have to admit she was impressed with
him
– just his magic.

Tyndal was no fool.  He took the compliment.  Law Twelve of the Meditations instructed the young man to
maximize his strengths and minimize his weaknesses when under a maiden’s thoughtful gaze
.  Magic and swordplay were both strengths for him.  She might be a cool academic, but Estasia couldn’t ignore his performance. 

He did the stunt twice more, the third time besting six opponents to the amazement of an ever-more growing crowd.

“That third time would have been beyond the ability of all but adept warmagi,” he said, panting from the exertion.  “
Without
irionite, it’s difficult for a mage to raise enough power to manage that for more than a few seconds. 
With
a witchstone  . . . well, I could go all day,” he said, earning some naughty chuckles and girlish giggles from the crowd. 

He grinned at the girls, and made a point of speaking with a few who weren’t Estasia, particularly the plainer-looking ones who were overly expressive about their admirations. 

Law Two was quite clear on the utility of that move:
Seek favor and attention from those maids whose interest you enjoy, but do not care for; for in jealousy oft has a maiden found a man more appealing than when he suffers from attention’s lack.

Ancient Galdan broke up the gathering after that – it was almost time for the evening meal, he reminded everyone, and there wasn’t a student there that didn’t have a mountain of studying to do – Tyndal most of all.

“Good work, lad,” the old soldier confided as he helped him remove his practice armor.  “That was as neat a spell as I’ve seen – and I’ve seen some warmagi,” he added.  “Your swordplay is really quite good.”

“Thanks,” Tyndal shrugged.  “It really didn’t need to be, against that lot.  I just wish
all
of my studies came to me as easily as swordplay.”

“It’s all just studying,” Galdan pointed out.  “The flash of a blade or the turn of a page, you’re doing the same work . . . just focused on a different part.”

“The pages seem to outnumber me,” the apprentice said, shaking his head.

“You just have to find their weakness,” chuckled the man.  “Every opponent has one.  Play to your strengths, lad.  That’s my best advice,” he said, inadvertently quoting Sire
Rose of Castle Heart.  Tyndal wondered if that was a coincidence.

Tyndal felt better as he walked back across the campus to his quarters in the North Tower.  His arms and legs ached a bit, and his chest thudded with the exertion, but he hadn’t felt this alive in days. 
Weeks.
  Warmagic was something he was good at – not the only thing, thank Trygg, but one of the things he was better at. 
That
was his strength. 

But how could he use that to tame the dragon-sized pile of books and scrolls he was supposed to get through?

Every step closer to his room seemed to bring him closer to that doom . . . when he spied Estasia lurking near-by, trying hard not to look like she was lurking. 

Tyndal grinned.  He might despair of learning the secrets of an untamed universe, but some things he
could
predict – like the effect a deft display of swordplay could have on a girl.

“That was . . .
interesting
,” she admitted, as she caught up with him.

“Just a little exercise,” he dismissed.  “It keeps me from going crazy here.”

“Why would you go crazy
here?
” she asked, confused.  “This is about the most wonderful place there is!”

“Wonderful?  If you’re a bookworm, perhaps.  After three hours of reading I’m ready to claw at the inside of my own skull.  I prefer a more active life.”

“I prefer to understand the secrets of the universe,” she riposted.

“You’d get along well with my fellow apprentice then.  Rondal of Sevendor. 
Sir
Rondal,” he corrected.  “Also one of the Spellmonger’s apprentices.  The better one, to hear him tell it.”

“Then I take it your master doesn’t put a premium on swordplay?” she asked with a shy smile.

“Oh, he does,” Tyndal admitted, enjoying her company, “but he’s even more concerned with our academics.  Apparently slaughtering legions of goblins and the odd troll just isn’t enough for the old man, these days,” he said, philosophically.

Estasia laughed, her dimples dancing across her cheek.  “You haven’t really slaughtered a troll . . .
have
you?”

“Close enough,” Tyndal said, glumly.  “Really, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds.  Trolls
stink.
  So do goblins, for that matter.  But Master Minalan is right: I do need to learn this stuff.  More of this stuff.  It’s amazing what I can do, but I’m starting to . . . “

“ . . . recognize the limits of your education?” she finished, diplomatically.

“ ‘. . . realize what an idiot I am’, is what I was going to say,” he admitted.  “But I like your version better.”  She looked sympathetic, surprisingly enough. 

With a start he realized he was inadvertently following Sire
Rose’s advice again, this time Law number Nine:
For best effect, the youth should demonstrate to a maid that their hearts can find connection, should he desire to proceed further on the Road to Love. 

“You just have to relax,” she advised.  “Quit worrying about the exam and learn the material.  As Mistress Quentine says,
‘no one who has mastered the subject should ever have to worry about a test’.”

“Oh.  Perfect.  All I have to do is wake up as an adept tomorrow, then . . .” he moaned.  “I can’t master one discipline, much less all this . . . this . . . this arcane stuff!”

“Just relax,” she repeated.  “You’ll get it.”

He stared up at the tower he had to climb to begin his fight against the book dragon.  “I hope you’re right.  Otherwise . . . well, I hope someone somewhere needs a good stableboy.”

*                            *                            *

*
                            *                            *

“I hear you were busy on campus after our meeting today,” Rondal remarked, looking up from his book at the room’s lone table.

“You mean the practice yard?” Tyndal asked, casually.  “Why, were you there?”

“Me?  No!  I’ve had enough of that madness for a while.  I was studying.  And my point, oh senior apprentice, was that you should have been, too.”

“Hey!  They
told
me I could practice a little!  It keeps my head from exploding from the pressure!” Tyndal shot back, defensively.

“Practice, yes.  Put on a bloody entertainment?  I don’t think that’s what they had in mind.”

“I was just demonstrating some warmagic to the students who’d never seen it,” Tyndal explained, defensively.  “Isn’t that what this place is supposed to be about?  A chance to share our education?  And no, I didn’t use any warwands.  Just a little combat augmentation.”

Rondal snorted.  “Trying to impress a skirt again, weren’t you?”

“No!” Tyndal said, sourly.  Then he considered.  “Well, I may have anyway, though, without really trying.  You know a girl named . . . what was it . . . Est . . . Estra . . . Estasia?” he said, finally recalling it by how her lips moved when she said her own name.  “Estasia, looks like an Imperial, a senior student . . .”

Rondal’s eyes bulged.  “You mean
Estasia of Mistalagan?
”

“I don’t know where she came from.  But wherever it is, they grow big—”

“She’s from House Devarina, descended from one of the great Wenshari magical families,” Rondal explained.  “Her grandfather was Remeran Ducal court mage for twenty years.  I heard about her from Lady Pentandra as someone I should try to meet, if I got the chance.  She’s considered something of a savant.  I hear she’s almost legendary for her alchemical skills.  Why?”

“She likes the way I swing a sword,” Tyndal shrugged, pleased with how impressed Rondal was with the attention he was getting.

“Estasia of Mistalagan . . .
spoke
to you?” Rondal repeated, his eyes wide.  “She probably showed up here knowing more magic than you and I will ever learn.  Ishi’s tits!  Was she pretty?”

“
Gorgeous
,” sighed Tyndal.  “Brown eyes that glistened like black walnut.  And smart.  Too smart.  Smart enough to see what an idiot I am.”

“Well, that’s doesn’t take much,” Rondal dismissed.  “Any idiot could see as much.  But she actually came up and
talked
to you?”

“Yes,” Tyndal said, enjoying his fellow apprentice’s envy.  “She told me I just needed to relax.  Just another bit of useless advice I’ve been getting. 
‘Relax’.  ‘Master the subject.’  ‘Play to your strengths’.”

“
‘Don’t be such an asshole’
,” Rondal added in the same tone.  “All brilliant bits of advice that you should really carefully consider, I agree.  But Estasia of Mistalagan . . . that’s
impressive
,” he admitted.

“She’s comely,” Tyndal shrugged, “but I doubt if she’s going to spoon-feed me Alchemy.”

“Not when you haven’t managed basic lesser elemental theory,” agreed Rondal.  “Estasia of Mistalagan . . . she
must
have been impressed by your sword work.  It certainly wasn’t your magic.”

“Not necessarily,” Tyndal protested.  “I was doing a warmagic demonstration.  Combat augmentations, perception enhancement, that sort of thing.  I took out
six
student opponents at the same time,” he bragged, weakly.

“I’m sure they were
stunning
examples of manliness,” Rondal said, rolling his eyes.  “And you were using warmagic, so maybe she was intrigued by the novelty.”

“She said as much.”  Tyndal looked away, guiltily.  “Ron, uh, I’m worried about my studying.”

“You’re chatting up Estasia of Mistalagan and you’re worried about your studies?  Relax, your exams are over, for the most part,” he pointed out, turning the page.  “Everything now is just absorbing information and learning new spells.”

“That’s what I
mean
,” he sighed, heavily.  “You’ve seen my list.  It’s only gotten longer.  Even with the memory spells, so I can review it later in my mind, I’m . . . well, I’m only hitting the surface.”

“Well, Estasia was right about one thing: you
do
need to relax.  I know you want to do well, but there’s no substitute for turning pages.  And no time like now to get back to it.”  He pushed the thaumaturgy book Tyndal had been reading across the desk toward him. 

“I know,” he sighed, as he picked up the book.  “Four more weeks of this hell of parchment.”

“Just think of the bright side – you only have to put up with me for two more,” Rondal observed.  “That has to lift a burden.”

“You aren’t so bad,” Tyndal admitted.  “Even if—”

“Let’s end your sentence
there
, shall we?” Rondal interrupted.  “I’m already irritated you’ve met Estasia and I haven’t, and any further discussion isn’t going to get the pages read.  It’s just another distraction waiting to happen.  Tyn, you’ve
got
to ignore everything else and just . . .
read
.  Study.  Ask questions.  You have a great opportunity here, and not nearly enough time to take advantage of it,” he finished, annoyed.  “That’s what Master Min wants you to do.”

“Yeah,” Tyndal said, returning to his book with a sigh.  “I guess I’ve got to get committed.”

*                            *                            *

*
                            *                            *

The next few days were awful, for Tyndal.  While his exams might be, technically, over, the ocean of reading recommendations and practical exercises kept flowing
in.  The only way to manage that as by pouring himself into studying, as lackluster as his performance was.

It didn’t help that Rondal was flourishing, asking questions and trading ideas with some of the best minds in the duchies.  Tyndal was slowly making his way through his reading list, struggling through tutoring sessions, attending the odd lecture, and falling more and more behind where the masters thought he should be. 

The only time he felt relief from the oppression of academics was when he took a break – no more than an hour, he promised himself – to go spar in the practice yard in the afternoon.  Apart from that, he was in his room, reading.  Or in the Main Library, reading.  Or sitting in the dining hall. 
Reading.

“It hurts less if you don’t move your lips,” a pleasantly amused female voice interrupted, as he was struggling through a Philosophy of Magic text in the library one afternoon.  Tyndal looked up to see Estasia grinning at him.  With the light behind her she looked adorable.  The same Imperial features as Pentandra, but younger and much more rounded.

“I just learned I didn’t have to say the words,” Tyndal complained.  “I still have to sound them out.  Especially the Perwynese.”

“Those are always hard,” she agreed, sympathetically.  “I suppose the question is, are you
mastering
the subject?”

“Are you jesting?” he asked in frustration.  “I’m barely keeping my head from rolling off of my shoulders.  I’ve read two monographs on Thaumaturgy that I didn’t understand, and I keep forgetting the noble gasses in lesser elemental theory!  It’s just too much to take in!  Especially in the time I’ve got left!”

“What?  You’re
leaving?
” she asked, concerned.

“Relan Cor War College,” he explained.  “That will be fun . . . but my master is paying a lot more attention to how I do here.  Four weeks.  Just over three, now.”

“I suppose the life of a Knight Mage is busy,” she observed, sitting beside him unbidden.  She smelled lovely. 

“This one certainly is,” agreed Tyndal, scooting over . . . mostly.  That left her side nearly pressed against his own.  He found he did not mind.  Their shoulders touched, now.

“Your master is Minalan the Spellmonger?  The Magelord?” she asked, curiously.

“Yes.  He attended this academy.  And no, I can’t get you a witchstone,” he told her.  “Don’t even ask.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she said, shaking her head.  “In Alchemy there isn’t much use for them, anyway.  It’s not a power-oriented discipline.”

“And you would know – you’re the great Alchemist, I hear,” Tyndal said, closing his book.

Estasia made a face.  “Blow up one barn and suddenly you’re an evil sorceress!”

“You
blew up a barn?
” Tyndal asked, intrigued.

“What, you didn’t know that?  I thought everyone knew that,” she said, blushing slightly.  “I’m here in Inarion because Alar Academy wouldn’t have me.  Before I was even accepted, another student and I were experimenting with nitrates in one of my father’s barns and . . . well, things got out of control,” she said, guiltily.  “No one was hurt, not seriously, but . . .”

“Impressive,” Tyndal said, nodding approvingly.  “I used to be a stableboy.  I can see the appeal of blowing up a barn perhaps more than you do.”

“You’re . . .
impressed
that I let a spell go futzy?” she asked, surprised.

“Let’s just say that as a novice warmage I can appreciate a powerfully destructive spell for professional reasons,” he said, chuckling.  Establishing a common connection was highly recommended by the Master of Castle Heart.

“Well, it was the talk of Wenshar for months.  It was a
horrible
scandal.  People started to talk about me being a Wild Mage.  My father finally imposed on some friends at court to get me sent here – as far away from Wenshar as he could.  Until the embarrassment dies down,” she said, unhappily.   “No one in my family likes a reckless mage.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, exactly – the other student was the one mixing the compound, and that’s where the blast started.  She was burnt.  Not badly but . . . we’re no longer friends.”

“So, you
aren’t
just the brilliant Wenshari witch who knows more Alchemy than a master . . . you’re just in exile because you’re an embarrassment!”.”

“I think I like the former description better,” she said, biting her lip in irritation.  Or was that interest?

“Who wouldn’t?  Just as I would prefer to be known as the dashing young knight mage, not the stumbling half-trained apprentice who doesn’t deserve his witchstone.”  The admission was a bit of vulnerability, true, but Sire Rose counseled a man to lead a woman by inviting her to share his feelings on something simple.  According to the sage of love, it would soften her, and make her more attracted to him. Sympathy could be a sword in the duel of hearts.

“So you have a few more weeks here?” she asked. “Maybe I’ll see you from time to time.”  Tyndal was almost startled.  He hadn’t expected the bold move to work so well -- but that was clearly an invitation to share her company.  Sire
Rose was not, as some claimed, merely a cynical courtier. 

“Not unless you live at the library,” he moaned.  “That’s where I get most of my sleep these days.”

She grinned again.  “I nearly do.  So I guess I’ll definitely see you.”

As warm and pleasant as the exchange was, Tyndal realized after the girl left that she was one more distraction from the books he had to get through.  He redoubled his efforts and read voraciously until it was time for his “afternoon stretch” at the practice yard. 

This time the students were absent, due to some lecture, so he got to work out with the guards, which he found more satisfying.  They knew how to fight, the importance of footwork, and the subtleties of swordplay.  None of them were outstanding, but each of them could give him a good run.  And he even picked up a few tricks, as a good swordsman will do.

Finally, huffing and puffing with the effort, he was stripping his armor off regretfully when Ancient Galdan said something off-hand.