Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (20 page)

“So, mainlander,” muttered Preceptor Myrr. “Will you try or not?”

The question was a holdover from earlier in today’s lesson. One Nundle had hope he would not need to answer again. Sighing, he replied in his normal, high-pitched voice.

“No, sir. I think I’ll just wait here until class is over, thank you.”

He would venture nothing more. Things went best when the students said the least.

Preceptor Myrr eyed Nundle, sighed, and turned away. Placing both hands on the railing, the ijul stared back out over the sea. The elongated fingers—they reminded Nundle of spider’s legs—wrapped around the wood and squeezed.

The preceptor remained quiet for a long enough time that Nundle hoped that would be the end of it.

The acolytes waited patiently, silently.

After a time, the quiet got to Nundle and he began to look around, staring about the boat again. His gaze fell upon the stairs that ran up to the deck in the back of the boat. He wondered if those had a special term, too. It baffled him that everything on a ship had a different name than it did on land. Nundle did not know his fore from aft or port from starboard. Nor did he care. The ocean was for fish. Not tombles.

“Mainlander?”

Nundle turned back to find the preceptor staring at him.

“This is your last chance.”

Nundle winced inwardly, wondering what the preceptor expected from him. Asking Nundle to try to touch Strands of Water was akin to asking a trout to fly.

Today’s lesson had been a disaster up to this point. They were supposed to be working on a pattern of Water Strands that would bind liquid water together into a hard surface. When the preceptor told them to think of it as making ice without the cold, Nundle had made the mistake of asking why they just did not make ice. The resulting glare from his teacher certainly was cold enough to attempt the feat.

To demonstrate the pattern, Preceptor Myrr had ordered the gangplank lowered to the ocean’s surface, walked down, and stepped straight onto the water. Three feet around him, the sea’s undulation ceased. The little waves frozen in place looked like those in seascape paintings.

The preceptor explained how the pattern was crafted and what it looked like, describing the requisite loops and hooks necessary in the Weave. The acolytes who had an affinity for Strands of Water were able to see the Weave while those that could not—Nundle included—were left standing around, staring at the ocean.

All four saeljuli in the class had easily grasped the lesson and joined the preceptor on the water. Smirking, Landor had extended the area of hard water a solid ten feet around her. Neither divina had been able to weave the pattern effectively and both fell into the sea, quickly lifting themselves back out with a Weave of Air. One of the longlegs had joined the divina in their impromptu swim while the other had made a mistake in the pattern, resulting in a geyser of water shooting him thirty feet into the air.

When it had been Nundle’s turn, he had simply refused to try. There was no point. Since arriving at Immylla, he had not sensed the tiniest flicker of blue. When it came to Strands of Water, he was deaf and mute.

It was not unusual by any means. Most mages showed proficiency with only two, sometimes three or four types of Strands. It was rare when one could effectively use five. After eight different academies, Nundle could touch four types of Strands. He was proud of that accomplishment. If he could not work with Water, so be it.

His original refusal had prompted the preceptor’s long period of quiet. Nundle hoped a second refusal would do the same even though he sorely doubted it.

“Still?” muttered Preceptor Myrr. “You still will not try?”

With the eyes of the entire class on him, Nundle answered, “No, Preceptor, I will not.”

The longleg who had shot himself into the air earlier audibly gasped at Nundle’s defiance.

“I see,” said Preceptor Myrr. Folding his arms behind him, he took a step closer to Nundle. “Have you ever heard of the needleteeth shark?”

Nundle’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

“No, sir.”

Nodding at the ocean, the preceptor said, “These shoals are infested with them. They aren’t very large, only two feet or so, but they have these long, spiny teeth with barbs at the end. When they bite you—and they will bite you—their teeth break off in your flesh. That in and of itself would be painful enough, but that is not the end of it. The teeth slowly secrete a poison, paralyzing you within a few breaths. And while you are unable to move, you remain entirely aware. That’s when the sharks start to nibble away at you. Death is a race between being eaten alive and drowning.”

A flicker of white was the only warning Nundle had before being abruptly lifted off the deck, whisked over the ship’s rail, and dangled over the water. Reasoning he was about to be a shark’s next meal, he reached out for the Strands of Will. Using a Weave against a preceptor was forbidden, but Nundle was happy to make an exception in this case.

He quickly knit the pattern that would make the preceptor susceptible to suggestions, but when he directed it at the ijul on deck, it unraveled, the golden Strands falling apart and fading. If a mage could see a Weave, sometimes only a part of it, he or she could unravel it if they knew where to pull. Apparently, the preceptor knew where.

“I read the report on you, mainlander!” called Preceptor Myrr. “That was rather predictable!”

Nundle did not answer as he was too busy panicking over being eaten. Or drowning. Or both.

As the preceptor lowered him to the water’s surface, Nundle readied himself to start swimming, his mind racing for a way out of this. He was surprised when he thudded onto something solid rather than go splashing into the sea. Righting himself, he looked around and found a three-foot diameter circle of hard, unmoving water surrounding him. Curious, he bent over and touched it. It looked like ice, but it was warm. A lone word of wonder slipped from his lips.

“Huh.”

The preceptor’s voice cut through the air.

“Back to the docks!”

Nundle’s head snapped up.

“Wait…what?”

Nundle looked on with growing anxiety as sailors rushed about the deck, readying the ship for sailing. While some stared out at him with worried expressions, none made any effort to toss him a rope.

Preceptor Myrr looked over the railing of the galley and called, “When you have figured out the pattern, walk to shore. If you are not back by tomorrow morning, I may send someone for you.” The ijul then turned and walked away, his long arms swinging freely by his sides.

Nundle glanced at his fellow acolytes, foolishly hoping they might help him somehow. Most of them seemed unconcerned about him. Landor wore a wide smile.

As the ship sailed away, Nundle had no choice but to stand there and watch. After a time, he sat down cross-legged on the not-ice and, rising and falling with the swells, stared at the white sails as they shrunk to a dot on the horizon.

“Wondrous.”

He did not want to spend the night here. And even if he did, he seriously doubted the preceptor would send someone for him tomorrow.

As he let out a long sigh, a shark fin pierced the water’s surface nearby.

“Uh-oh.”

Lifting his hand, Jhaell scratched his nose while staring at the open book before him. On the corner of his desk sat a sand jar in which a Yutian incense stick burned, curls of peppery smoke coiling up from the glowing tip to join the thick haze hanging near the ceiling. Lit candles clasped in tall bronze stands filled the room with a soft, quivering glow.

This was the time of day he should to be planning tomorrow’s lesson, but try as he might, he could not concentrate on the pages before him. His mind kept wandering.

He glanced to another book on his desk, a faded blue canvas-bound tome from Quan that contained a passage of text that was one of the most promising he had found in years. It was nothing to bring to Tandyr yet, but if he could find corroboration in the library, he certainly would.

Tilting his head back, he stared at the ceiling and sighed heavily, his exhalation causing the incense haze to twist and spin. Over two hundred fifty years had passed since Syra’s death. At times, he had difficulty remembering her face. Yet the ache of loss was as potent as it had been that day on the cold, sandy shore.

With each passing semester, his restlessness increased. When he had agreed to help Tandyr, he had never thought it would be for so long. He had met some success—finding the first for which Tandyr was searching—but the going was interminably slow. He was only a third of the way through the academy’s massive library.

Even worse, there was a chance it could all be for naught. If the Progeny—whoever they may be—were not found, Tandyr’s plan might fail. And if that happened, Jhaell’s promised reunion with Syra would never come.

He sighed again, quietly cursing, “
Beelvra
.”

The sound of metal striking wood issued forth from his office door, the crack reverberating through the room. Jhaell’s melancholy mood fled in an instant, his long-fingered hands balling into fists. If another one of the acolytes was coming to complain, Jhaell just might kill him or her.

Reaching over, he picked up the blue tome, opened a front drawer, and slid the book inside. Shutting the drawer, he shot a quick glance around the room, confirming that he had not left anything else out. Long tables ran the length of the walls, covered with stacks of maps and yellowed parchments.

Confident the room was safe, he called, “Enter.”

As the door swung open, a frown spread over Jhaell’s face. It was not a student.

The ijul standing in the doorway wore robes of cobalt silk lined with ornate, teal ribbing at the cuffs and neckline. A sapphire the size of Jhaell’s thumb had been sewn into the robe at the neckline’s inverted peak. Ensconced in the robes was an old saeljul with long, white hair so thin that it reminded Jhaell of threads hanging from a sleeve after being caught on a stray splinter.

While Jhaell was nearly four hundred years old, he was still several decades from his first wrinkle. This ijul’s face was a web of them. Lines spread across his pale skin like the roads on a city map. Contrasting the ijul’s feeble appearance were his bright green eyes, sharp and alive.

As the saeljul shuffled into the room, Jhaell rose and gave a small bow. The elder ijul looked out of place, his bright blue robe clashing with the plush crimson rug that covered the office’s stone floor.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Distinguished One?”

Distinguished One Hovathil studied the room, taking in the closed shutters on the three arched windows, the candles, and the sparse, crimson-heavy décor. When his gaze rested on Jhaell and his red robes, Hovathil frowned, reorganizing the age lines on his face. Letting out a wisp of a sigh, he scanned the room again, apparently looking for somewhere to sit.

“Do you not have a chair so I may rest?”

Jhaell had removed the chairs from his office decades ago. They encouraged people to sit and stay when Jhaell would much rather that they had never come in the first place.

“No, Distinguished One, I do not.”

Hovathil glared at Jhaell for a long moment, saying nothing. Jhaell met his stare with a quiet, tolerant confidence.

“Preceptor Myrr, we are a patient race, are we not?”

Jhaell nodded once. “We are.”

“Would you say that we here at the Academy have been patient with you?”

Jhaell kept his face a blank mask and remained quiet. The question was unexpected. “Pardon, sir?”

“Your behavior and attitude have been…let us say ‘challenging’ for others to deal with over these last few decades. Centuries, even.”

Hovathil paused, seeing if he would get a response. He would not. Jhaell clasped his hands together and stared in silence, curious as to why the Distinguished One had come. Visits to his personal office by the registry were rare.

“What has become of you, Preceptor? You were once one of our best instructors. Acolytes requested you. Now you are temperamental. Irritable. ‘Cruel’ is a word many whisper.”

Keeping his tone even, Jhaell lied, “I have modified my teaching methods through the years. That is all.”

“For the worst, it would seem,” muttered Hovathil, strolling over to one of the tables covered with maps and parchments. Jhaell stiffened. While nothing important was visible, should the Distinguished One move items around, things would go poorly.

“Why are you here, Distinguished One?” asked Jhaell. The question served its purpose, pulling Hovathil’s attention from the papers and placing it back on Jhaell.

“An entire class of yours quit the Academy, leaving nothing more than letters of notice in their quarters, and you have to ask the reason for my visit?” He began to advance on Jhaell’s desk, his eyes burning. “That has
never
happened at Immylla, Myrr.
Never
.”

Jhaell had arranged things so it would appear the nine students had quit the Academy on their own accord. While he still regretted his indiscretion in Yellow Mud, the acolytes’ disappearance had proven to be a boon of sorts, giving him more time to spend researching for Tandyr.

“They will be missed, sir.”

“I doubt by you,” muttered Hovathil. Leaning forward, letting his thin hair hang before his wizened face like dead, moss from an ancient tree, the saeljul ordered, “You will modify your tutoring methods. Do you understand? Else your position here at Immylla will be ended.”

Jhaell tried hard not to glare at the ijul, but he could not be sure that he succeeded. “I under—”

“Do you still wish to teach here, Myrr?”

In all honesty, the answer was no. Yet Tandyr needed him here, searching dusty tomes and parchments, seeking any mention of the Locking and—more recently—anything that might lead to the Progeny mentioned in Indrida’s prophecy. “Of course I wish to continue.”

The Distinguished One leaned even closer. His breath smelled of onions and fish. “Truly, Myrr?”

Along with patience, humility was a quality Jhaell had ceased to practice over the centuries. It took him a moment to summon some, bow his head, and say politely, “Yes, Distinguished One, I value my place at Immylla.”