“A weak one,” Tyen corrected.
“Well, if you can’t go back you’ll need time to find somewhere safe. Don’t wait for permission. Go.” He grimaced. “Good luck.” He hurried on.
Tyen had only walked a dozen or more steps further when another teacher stopped him. She only wanted to thank him for his lessons on mechanical magic and wish him luck. Soon after, an older sorcerer, now retired, repeated the advice to leave now. Tyen wished the man well, but only changed his course towards the meeting hall. At the rate he was moving through the crowd it would take him as long to get there as it would to get the rest of the way to his room.
When he finally stepped inside it was a relief to enter a space of comparative quiet and stillness. A few teachers were present, and twenty or so students. A large group of servants milled to one side. The last detail brought the first true tingle of anxiety. Servants never attended meetings.
What would they do, if the school closed? They were not sorcerers, so he guessed they were safe from the Raen. But they depended on the school for their income. Was somebody going to transport them to their home worlds, or to a new home? And what of the town outside the walls, that had grown so large only because of the school?
More sorcerers and students trickled into the room. When the three Heads arrived, it was to an audience Tyen estimated was a quarter of the size it ought to have been. He watched the Heads closely as they waited, noting how they fidgeted and whispered to each other. Head Lerh spoke to those gathered to say they’d wait a little longer to see if more people arrived. When a couple of teachers rose and hurried away soon after, he returned to the podium to say they could wait no longer. He looked down at a piece of paper, then shook his head, folded it and put it away in his clothing.
“We are here to confirm that reports of the Raen’s return are accurate,” he began. “Assuming the old laws are to be reinstated, we see no alternative but to close Liftre. Any students requiring assistance to return to their families should remain here so arrangements can be made. My colleagues will also be taking servants to their home worlds. Also, volunteers are required to remove…” The rest of his words were inaudible. The audience, not waiting to hear him finish, had begun to hurry out of the room. Head Lerh stopped and looked back at the other two Heads, who shrugged. “Travel only as much as you must,” he called out above the noise. “May you reach your homes safely.”
Tyen watched the exodus in disbelief. When the last of the sorcerers had left he wandered out. The corridors seemed colder, somehow. He made his way up to the teacher’s level, but the route to his room was still crowded. He took a different, circuitous path to the far corner of the school instead.
Tarren, having been one of the Liftre’s founding sorcerers, had claimed one of the towers of the abandoned old castle long ago. Tyen’s knock brought Cim, the old man’s servant, to the door. The woman’s calm demeanour was a welcome contrast to the rest of the school’s occupants’ and he could almost believe he had dreamed the announcement in the hall. She led him up the stairs to the study.
Tarren was bent over a desk, a large brush in hand, painting elegant glyphs on a length of fine white fabric, apparently oblivious to the chaos below.
“So the school is closing,” Tarren said.
Not so oblivious after all, Tyen mused. “Yes.”
The old man nodded to a second desk. On it lay a sheet of paper, bowl of ink, water cup, cloth and brush, ready for use.
“Sit.”
Tyen obeyed, knowing that the more he objected he had no time for this, the more stubborn the old man would be about it. Yet he was also drawn to this act of normality. He drew in a deep breath, savouring the smells of the paper and ink.
According to Tarren, calligraphy focused and refined the mind. The walls of his rooms were decorated with banners, each containing a favourite quote. Some were wise, some funny, and others didn’t appear to make any sense. Though Tyen had been able to speak the Traveller tongue by the time he reached Liftre, he had not been able to write it well. Tarren had insisted Tyen spend every evening here, practising until he formed the characters to a standard the old man judged worthy of a scholar.
Tyen doubted Tarren would be indulging in his hobby if he thought the Raen was about to attack the school. He picked up the brush.
“What’s it like down there?” Tarren asked, not lifting his gaze from his work.
“Lots of rushing about, parents arriving, people leaving. I think a few are stealing things.”
Tarren’s hand was steady as he curled his brush in a perfect circle, paler at first then darkening to full black at the end of the stroke. “The meeting attendance?”
“A quarter of the students and teachers turned up. And quite a few servants.” He moistened the bristles of his brush with water, then dried the excess on the cloth.