“Oh yes, the Wandering Deacon of Dahlgren. He came here as well, preaching that a young girl named Thrace is the Heir of Novron. He sounded very sincere. Even I was inclined to believe him.”
“A lot of people did and that’s part of the reason Melengar’s fate is so precarious now.”
Arista stopped. There was someone at the door—a pretty girl, perhaps six years old. Long dark hair spilled over her shoulders, and her hands were clasped together, holding a length of thin rope that she played with, spinning it in circles.
“Ah, there you are. Good,” the wizard told the girl, who stared apprehensively at Arista. “I was hoping you’d turn up soon. He’s starting to cause a fuss. It’s as if he can tell time.” Arcadius glanced at Arista. “Oh, forgive me. I neglected to introduce you. Arista, this is Mercy.”
“How do you do?” Arista asked.
The little girl said nothing.
“You must forgive her. She’s a bit shy with strangers.”
“A bit young for Sheridan, isn’t she?”
Arcadius smiled. “Mercy is my ward. Her mother asked me to watch over her for a while until her situation improved. Until then I try my best to educate her, but as I learned with you, young ladies can be most willful.” He turned to the girl. “Go right ahead, dear. Take Mr. Rings outside with you before he rips up his cage again.”
The girl moved across the room’s debris as nimbly as a cat and removed a thin raccoon from his cage. He was a baby by the look of it, and she carried him out the door, giggling as Mr. Rings sniffed her ear.
“She’s cute,” Arista said.
“Indeed she is. Now, you said you had something on your mind?”
Arista nodded and considered her words. The question Esrahaddon had planted she now presented to her old teacher. “Arcadius, who approved my entrance into Sheridan?”
The lore master raised a bristled eyebrow. “Ah,” he said. “You know, I always wondered why you never asked before. You are perhaps the only female to attend Sheridan University in its seven-hundred-year history, and certainly the only one to study the arcane arts at all, but you never questioned it once.”
Arista’s posture tightened. “I’m questioning it now.”
“Indeed … indeed,” the wizard replied. He sat back, removed his glasses, and rubbed his nose briefly. “I was visited by Chancellor Ignatius Lambert, and asked if I would be willing to accept a gifted young lady into my instructions on arcane theory. This surprised me. You see, I didn’t teach a class on arcane theory. I had wanted to, and I requested to have it added to the curriculum on many occasions, but I was always turned down by the school’s patrons. It seemed they didn’t feel that teaching magic was a respectable pursuit. Magic uses power not connected to a spiritual devotion to Maribor and Novron. At best, it was subversive and possibly outright evil in their minds. The fact that I practiced the arcane arts at all has always been an embarrassment.”
“Why haven’t they replaced you?”
“It could be that my reputation as the most learned wizard in Avryn lends such prestige to this school that they allow me my hobbies. Or it may be that anyone who has tried to force my resignation has been turned into the various toads, squirrels, and rabbits you see about you.”
He appeared so serious that Arista looked around the room at the various cages and aquariums, at which point the wizard began to chuckle.
She scowled at him—which only made him laugh harder.
“As I was saying,” Arcadius went on once he regained control of himself, “Ignatius was in one sentence offering me my desire to teach magic if I was willing to accept you as a student. Perhaps he thought I would refuse. Little did he know that unlike the rest of them, I harbor no prejudices concerning women. Knowledge is knowledge, and the chance to instruct and enlighten a princess—a potential leader—with the power to help shape the world around us was not a deterrent at all. On the contrary, I saw it as a bonus.”
“So you’re saying I was allowed entrance because of a plan of the school’s headmaster that backfired?”
“Not at all. That is merely how it happened, not why. Why is a much more important question. You see, School Chancellor Ignatius Lambert was not alone in my office that morning. With him was another man. He remained silent and stood over there, just behind and to the left of you, where the birdcage is now. The cage wasn’t there then, of course. Instead, he chose to stand on a discarded old coat and a dagger. As I mentioned, it’s always interesting to see the paths people take when they enter this office, and where they choose to stand.”
“Who was he?”
“Percy Braga, the Archduke of Melengar.”
“So it was Uncle Percy.”