“He certainly was involved, but even an archduke of Melengar wasn’t likely to have influence over those running Sheridan University, especially on a matter as volatile as teaching magic to young noble ladies. Sheridan is in the ecclesiastical realm of Ghent, where secular lords have no sway. There was, however, another man with them. He never entered my office but stood in the doorway, in the shadows.”
“Could you tell who it was?”
“Oh yes.” Arcadius smiled. “These are reading glasses, my dear. I can see long distances just fine, but then, I can see that is a common mistake people make.”
“Who was it, then?”
“A close friend of your family, I believe. Bishop Maurice Saldur of Medford’s Mares Cathedral, but you probably already knew that, didn’t you?”
Good to his word, Arcadius sent steaming meat pies and red wine. Arista recalled the pies from her days as a student. They were never very good, even when fresh. Usually they were made from the worst cuts of pork, because the school saved lamb for the holidays. The pies were heavy on onions and carrots and thin on gravy and meat. Students actually gambled on how many paltry shreds of pork they would find in their pies—a mere five stood as the record. Despite their complaints, the other students wolfed down their meals, but she never had. Most of the other students’ indignation she guessed was only bluster—they likely ate no better at home. Arista, however, was accustomed to three or four different meats roasted on the bone, several varieties of cheese, freshly baked breads, and whatever fruits were in season. To get her through the week, she had servants bring deliveries from home, which she had kept in her room.
“You could have mentioned that you knew Arcadius,” Arista told them as they sat down together at the common table, an old bit of furniture defaced like everything else. It wobbled enough to make her glad the wine was in a jug with cups instead of a bottle and stemmed glasses.
“And ruin the fun?” Hadrian replied with a handsome grin. “So Arcadius was your professor?”
“One of them. The curriculum requires you to take several classes, learning different subjects from the various teachers. Master Arcadius was my favorite. He was the only one to teach magic.”
“So you learned magic from Arcadius as well as Esrahaddon?” Royce asked, digging into his pie.
Arista nodded, poking her pie with a knife and letting the steam out.
“That must have been interesting. I’m guessing their teaching styles were a bit different.”
“Like night and day.” She took a sip of wine. “Arcadius was formal in his lessons. He followed a structured course, using books and lecturing very professorially, like you saw this evening. His style made the lessons seem right and proper, despite the stigma associated with them. Esrahaddon was haphazard, and he seemed to teach whatever came to his mind. Oftentimes he had trouble explaining things. Arcadius is clearly the better teacher, but …” She paused.
“But?” Royce asked.
“Well, don’t tell Arcadius,” she said conspiratorially, “but Esrahaddon seems to be the more skilled and knowledgeable. Arcadius is the expert on the history of magic, but Esrahaddon is the history, if you follow me.”
She took a bite of pie and got a mouthful of onions and burnt crust.
“Having learned from both, doesn’t that make you the third most skilled mage in Avryn?”
Arista smirked bitterly and washed the mouthful down with more wine. While she suspected Royce was correct, she had cast only two spells since leaving their tutelage.
“Arcadius taught me many important lessons. Yet his classes concerned themselves with using knowledge as a means to broaden his students’ understanding of their world. It’s his way of getting us to think in new directions, to perceive what is around us in terms that are more sensible. Of course, this didn’t make his students happy. We all wanted the secrets to power, the tools to reshape the world to our liking. Arcadius doesn’t really give answers, but rather forces his students to ask questions.
“For instance, he once asked us what makes noble blood different from a commoner’s blood. We pricked our fingers and ran tests, and as it turns out, there is no detectable difference. This led to a fight on the commons between a wealthy merchant’s son and the son of a low-ranking baron. Master Arcadius was reprimanded and the merchant’s son was whipped.”
Hadrian finished eating, and Royce was more than halfway through his pie, but he had left his wine untouched after grimacing with the first sip. Arista chanced another bite and caught a mushy carrot, still more onions, and a soggy bit of crust. She swallowed with a sour look.
“Not a fan of meat pie?” Hadrian asked.
She shook her head. “You can have it if you like.” She slid it over.