The Novice (57 page)

Rothen clearly thought that Dannyl didn’t know about Tayend. This was exactly what they had wanted the Elyne court to believe, but now that he had been “informed,” the Elynes—and Kyralians—would expect him to avoid Tayend’s company.

Unless no one knew that Rothen had told him. He could pretend he hadn’t received the letter…but no, as soon as he arrived in the Guild, Rothen would want to know if he had received it, and would repeat the warning if he hadn’t.

But what of Akkarin?
Dannyl wasn’t sure how the High Lord had learned of his research. What if those sources had also spoken of Dannyl’s “friendship” with Tayend? What if Akkarin’s suspicions had been confirmed during their brief mental communication?

Dannyl sighed. For a few days, everything had been wonderful. He had been happier than he had ever been in his life. Then…
this.

As the flask was passed to him again, he took another sip of the potent liquor.
So long as Tayend doesn’t suffer for knowing me,
he thought,
I will be content.

The Night Room was crowded. Not since the hunt for Sonea had Lorlen seen it so full. Magicians who rarely joined in the weekly social gathering were present now.

The most notable of these was the man at his side. The sea of red, green and purple robes parted before Akkarin as he made his way to the chair that was, unofficially, his.

Akkarin was enjoying himself. To others, his neutral expression suggested indifference, but Lorlen knew better. If Akkarin didn’t want to participate in a discussion about his favorite novice challenging another, he wouldn’t be here. The three Heads of Disciplines were already seated around Akkarin’s chair, and a small crowd began to gather as the High Lord settled into his seat. Among them, Lorlen noted, was Rothen’s son, Dorrien.

“It appears your favorite novice has found a way to entertain us yet again, Akkarin,” Lady Vinara said. “I’m beginning to wonder what we can expect from her after she has graduated.”

The corner of Akkarin’s mouth curled upward. “As am I.”

“Was this challenge your idea or hers?” Balkan rumbled.

“It was not mine.”

Balkan’s brows rose. “And did she seek your approval?”

“No, but I believe there is no rule that requires it, though perhaps there should be.”

“Then you would have refused, had she asked?”

Akkarin’s eyes narrowed. “Not necessarily. If she had sought my view on the matter, I might have advised her to wait.”

“Perhaps this was a spontaneous decision,” suggested Lord Peakin, who was standing behind Vinara’s chair.

“No,” Lord Sarrin replied. “She chose a moment when she was assured of numerous witnesses. Regin had no option but to accept.”

Seeing the Head of Alchemists glance pointedly to one side, Lorlen followed his gaze. Lord Garrel was standing among the gathered magicians, wearing a slight frown.

“So if she planned this, she must be confident of winning,” Peakin concluded. “Do you agree with her, Lord Balkan?”

The Warrior shrugged. “She is strong, but a skilled opponent might overcome her.”

“And Regin?”

“He is more skilled than the average Second Year.”

“Skilled enough to win?”

Balkan glanced at Akkarin. “Skilled enough that the outcome will not be easily predicted.”

“Do you believe she will win?” Vinara asked of Akkarin.

The High Lord paused before answering. “Yes.”

She smiled. “But of course you do. She is your novice, and you must be seen to support her.”

Akkarin nodded. “That is true, as well.”

“She is, no doubt, doing this to please you.” Hearing Garrel’s voice, Lorlen looked up in surprise.

“I doubt it,” Akkarin replied.

Surprised at this admission, Lorlen glanced at Akkarin, then carefully noted the other magicians’ expressions. None looked surprised. Only Rothen’s son, Dorrien, looked thoughtful. Perhaps it had been noted that Sonea was not at all fond of her guardian.

“Then what is her motivation?” Peakin asked.

“If she wins, Regin will not bully her again for fear of another challenge, and another defeat,” Vinara answered.

There was a pause, in which glances were exchanged. By speaking of the bullying openly in front of both Akkarin and Garrel, Vinara had drawn attention to the potential for conflict between the two guardians. While none usually balked at raising the subject of feuding novices around their guardians, few would dare to do so when one of the guardians was the High Lord. It put Garrel in an interesting position.

Neither guardian spoke.

“That depends on how the battles progress,” Balkan said, breaking the silence. “If she wins with mere brute strength, none will respect her.”

“That makes no difference,” Sarrin argued. “No matter how she wins, Regin won’t bother her again. I doubt she cares whether anyone else respects her fighting skills.”

“There are methods of defeating a stronger magician,” Balkan reminded him. “Regin knows this. He has already sought my instruction on such tactics.”

“And Sonea? Will she receive extra instruction from you as well?” Vinara asked Balkan.

“Lord Yikmo is her teacher,” Akkarin replied.

Balkan nodded. “His teaching style is better suited to her temperament.”

“Who will oversee the fight?” another magician asked.

“I will,” Balkan said. “Unless anyone protests. Lord Garrel will protect Regin. Will you be protecting Sonea?” he asked Akkarin.

“Yes.”

“Here’s Sonea’s tutor,” Lord Sarrin observed, pointing. Lorlen turned to see that Lord Yikmo had just strolled into the room. The Warrior stopped and looked around, clearly surprised by the crowd. As his eyes rested on the magicians gathered around Akkarin, his eyebrows rose. Sarrin beckoned.

“Good evening, High Lord, Administrator,” Yikmo said as he reached the chairs.

“Lord Yikmo,” Peakin said. “You must be planning for a few late nights.”

Yikmo frowned. “Late nights?”

Peakin chuckled. “So she’s that good, is she? Doesn’t need the extra practice?”

The young magician’s frown deepened. “Practice?”

Vinara took pity on the man. “Sonea has challenged Regin to a formal battle.”

Yikmo stared at her, then at the faces watching him, his own slowly turning white.

“She did
what?
”

Sonea paced her room, wringing her hands.
What have I done? Let my anger get the better of me, that’s what. I don’t know anything about fighting. All I’m going to do is make a fool of myself in front of—

“Sonea.”

Turning, Sonea blinked in surprise at the man standing in the doorway of her room. No one had ever visited her in the High Lord’s Residence before.

“Lord Yikmo,” she said, bowing.

“You’re not ready yet, Sonea.”

She flinched, suddenly fearful. If Yikmo didn’t think she could win…

“I was hoping you’d help me with that, my lord.”

Several expressions ran across Yikmo’s face. Consternation. Thoughtfulness. Interest. He frowned and ran his hands through his hair.

“I understand why you’re doing this, Sonea. But I don’t have to remind you that Garrel is an accomplished Warrior and that Regin’s skills are better than yours—despite all I have taught you. He has a week to prepare, and Balkan has agreed to tutor him.”

Balkan! This is only getting worse!
Sonea looked down at her hands. They weren’t shaking, she was relieved to see, but her stomach was fluttering so much she felt sick.

“But I am stronger, and the rules of a challenge don’t require any limits on strength,” she pointed out.

“You can’t rely on your strength to win the match for you, Sonea,” Yikmo warned. “There are ways around it. I’m sure Balkan will ensure Regin knows them all.”

“Then you had better ensure I do, too,” she retorted. Surprised at the determination in her own voice, she grimaced apologetically. “Will you help me?”

He smiled. “Of course. I could hardly abandon the High Lord’s favorite now.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“But don’t think I’m doing this only out of respect for your guardian.”

Surprised, she looked at him closely and was amazed to see approval in his gaze. Of all the teachers, she would never have expected to gain the respect of a Warrior.

“You do realize that people will watch me teaching you,” he said. “They will report everything to Regin and Lord Garrel.”

“I have thought about that.”

“And?”

“What…what about the Dome?”

Yikmo’s eyebrows rose, then he grinned broadly. “I’m sure it can be arranged.”

As the carriage passed through the Guild Gates, Dannyl looked up at the University. The Guild buildings were so familiar, but now they seemed foreign and forbidding. He looked toward the High Lord’s Residence.

Especially that one.

He glanced at the satchel lying on the seat beside him, then picked it up. In it was a copy of the notes that he and Tayend had gathered, rewritten so that nothing in them read like a retracing of Akkarin’s journey. He chewed on his lip.
If Akkarin believes any of this was an investigation of his past, this could infuriate him further. But I’ll be in trouble anyway, so it’s worth the risk.

The carriage stopped and rocked a little as the driver clambered down to the ground. The door opened. Dannyl stepped out and turned to the driver.

“Send my travel chest to my rooms,” Dannyl ordered. The man bowed, and moved to the back of the carriage, where the chest was roped to a narrow tray.

Tucking the satchel under his arm, Dannyl started down the path to the High Lord’s Residence. As he walked, he noticed that the gardens were empty, which was unusual for a sunny Freeday afternoon.
Where is everyone?

By the time he reached the door of the Residence, his mouth was dry and his heart was beating too fast. Taking a deep breath, he reached out to the door handle. Before he could close his fingers around it, the door swung inward.

A servant stepped forward and bowed. “The High Lord is waiting for you in the library, Ambassador Dannyl. Please follow me.”

Stepping inside, Dannyl glanced appreciatively around the luxuriously decorated guestroom. He had never entered the High Lord’s Residence before. The servant opened a door, ushering Dannyl up a spiral staircase. At the top, he walked down a short corridor to a pair of open doors on the right.

The walls of the room inside were lined with books.
What secrets might I find in them?
Dannyl wondered.
Any information about—?

Then he saw the desk at one side of the room, and the black-robed magician sitting behind it, watching him. He felt his heart skip a beat, then start racing.

“Welcome home, Ambassador Dannyl.”

Get a hold of yourself!
Dannyl thought sternly. He inclined his head politely to Akkarin. “Thank you, High Lord.”

Hearing the doors close, Dannyl glanced back to see that the servant had left.
Now I’m trapped
...He pushed the thought away, stepped forward and placed the satchel on Akkarin’s desk.

“My notes,” he said. “As you requested.”

Thank you,” Akkarin replied. One pale hand picked up the satchel, the other waved toward a chair. “Sit down. You must be tired from the journey.”

Dannyl sank into the chair gratefully and watched as Akkarin leafed through his notes. Dannyl soothed away a nagging headache. The previous evening he had drunk a little too much siyo in an attempt to stop imagining what he might face the next day.

“You visited the Splendid Temple, I see.”

Dannyl swallowed. “Yes.”

“Did the High Priest allow you to read the scrolls?”

“He read them to me—after I vowed to keep their contents a secret.”

Akkarin smiled faintly. “And the Tomb of White Tears?”

“Yes. A fascinating place.”

“Which led you to Armje?”

“Not directly. If I had continued the course of my research, I might have entered Sachaka, but my duties as Ambassador did not allow for such a journey.”

Akkarin stilled. “Crossing the border would be…inadvisable.” He looked up and met Dannyl’s eyes, his expression disapproving. “Sachaka is not part of the Allied Lands and, as a member of the Guild, you should not enter unless under orders of the King.”

Dannyl shook his head. “I hadn’t considered that, but I was not about to go blundering into an unknown land without making some inquiries here first.”

Akkarin regarded Dannyl thoughtfully, then glanced down at the notes. “So why did you visit Armje?”

“Dem Ladeiri suggested I see the ruins while I was visiting him.”

Akkarin frowned. “He did, did he?” He fell silent then, reading the notes. After several minutes he made a small noise of surprise, then looked up and stared at Dannyl.

“You
survived?
”

Guessing what Akkarin was referring to, Dannyl nodded. “Yes, though it exhausted me.”

As Akkarin continued reading, Dannyl wondered if he had ever seen the man express astonishment before. He decided he hadn’t, and felt a strange pride that he, of all people, had managed to surprise the High Lord.

“So you overcame the barrier,” Akkarin mused. “Interesting. Perhaps the chamber is losing strength. The power must dwindle eventually.”

“May I ask a question?” Dannyl ventured.

Akkarin looked up, one eyebrow raised. “You may ask.”

“If you had encountered this Chamber of Ultimate Punishment before, why didn’t you tell anyone here about it?”

“I did.” The corner of Akkarin’s mouth twitched upward. “But since it was impossible for anyone to investigate without triggering an attack—and for additional reasons of a political nature—it was decided that its existence should be known by only the highest magicians. Which means that I must order you to keep your knowledge of it to yourself.”

Dannyl nodded. “I understand.”

“It is unfortunate, indeed, that my warning had crumbled away.” Akkarin paused, his eyes narrowing. “Was there any sign that it might have been removed deliberately?”

Surprised, Dannyl thought of the wall, and what had been left of Akkarin’s name. “I couldn’t say.”