“He’s lovesick,” Simmon said knowingly. “Can’t eat. Can’t sleep. You think of her when you should be trying to memorize your cipher.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“See?” Simmon said to Wil. “She’s stolen his tongue as well as his heart. All his words are for her. He can spare none for us.”
“Can’t spare any time, either,” Wilem said into his rapidly dwindling meat pie.
It was true of course—I had been neglecting my friends even more than I had been neglecting myself. I felt a flush of guilt wash over me. I couldn’t tell them the full truth, that I needed to make the most of this term because it would very likely be my last. I was flat broke.
If you cannot understand why I couldn’t bring myself to tell them this, then I doubt you have ever been truly poor. I doubt you can really understand how embarrassing it is to only own two shirts, to cut your own hair as best you can because you can’t afford a barber. I lost a button and couldn’t spare a shim to buy a matching one. I tore out the knee of my pants and had to make due with the wrong color thread for mending. I couldn’t afford salt for my meals, or drinks on my rare evenings out with friends.
The money I earned in Kilvin’s shop was spent on essentials: ink, soap, lute strings…the only other thing I could afford was pride. I couldn’t bear the thought of my two best friends knowing how desperate my situation was.
If I suffered a piece of extraordinary good luck I might be able to muster two talents to pay the interest on my debt to Devi. But it would require a direct act of God for me to somehow gather enough money to pay that and next term’s tuition as well. After I was forced out of the University and squared my debt with Devi, I didn’t know what I’d do. Pull up stakes and head for Anilin to look for Denna, perhaps.
I looked at them, not knowing what to say. “Wil, Simmon, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been so busy lately.”
Simmon grew a little more serious, and I saw that he was earnestly hurt at my unexplained absence. “We’re busy too, you know. I’ve got rhetoric and chemistry and I’m learning Siaru.” He turned to Wil and scowled. “You should know I’m beginning to hate your language, you shim bastard.”
“Tu kralim,” the young Ceald replied amiably.
Simmon turned back to me, and spoke with remarkable candor. “It’s just that we’d like to see you more often than once every handful of days as you run from Mains to the Fishery. Girls are wonderful, I’ll admit, but when one takes one of my friends away, I get a little jealous.” He gave a sudden, sunny smile. “Not that I think of you in that way, of course.”
I found it hard to swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been missed. For a long time, I hadn’t had anyone to miss me. I felt the beginning of hot tears in the back of my throat. “Really, there isn’t a girl. I mean it.” I swallowed hard trying to regain my composure.
“Sim, I think we’ve been missing something here.” Wilem was looking at me oddly. “Take a good look at him.”
Simmon gave me a similar, analytical stare. That look from the two of them was enough to unnerve me, pushing me back from the edge of tears.
“Now,” Wilem said as if lecturing. “How many terms has our young E’lir been attending the University?”
Realization poured into Sim’s honest face. “Oh.”
“Anyone care to tell me?” I said petulantly.
Wilem ignored my question. “What classes are you taking?”
“Everything,” I said, glad to have an excuse to complain. “Geometry, Observation in the Medica, Advanced Sympathy with Elxa Dal, and I’ve got my apprenticeship under Manet in the Fishery.”
Simmon looked a little shocked. “No wonder you look like you haven’t slept in a span of days,” he said.
Wilem nodded to himself. “And you’re still working in Kilvin’s shop, aren’t you?”
“A couple hours every night.”
Simmon was aghast. “And you’re learning an instrument at the same time? Are you insane?”
“The music is the only thing that keeps me grounded,” I said, reaching down to touch my lute. “And I’m not learning to play. I just need practice.”
Wilem and Simmon exchanged looks. “How long do you think he has?”
Simmon looked me over. “Span and a half, tops.”
“What do you mean?”
Wilem leaned forward. “We all bite off too much sooner or later. But some students don’t know when to spit their mouthful. They burn out. They quit, or botch their exams. Some crack.” He tapped his head. “It usually happens to students in their first year.” He gave me a significant look.
“I haven’t bitten off too much,” I said.
“Look in a mirror,” Wilem suggested frankly.
I opened my mouth to reassure Wil and Sim that I was fine, but just then I heard the hour being struck, and I only had time for a hurried good-bye. Even so, I had to run to make it to Advanced Sympathy on time.
Elxa Dal stood between two medium sized braziers. In his well-trimmed beard and dark master’s robe, he still reminded me of the stereotypical evil magician that appears in so many bad Aturan plays. “What each of you must remember is that the sympathist is tied to flame,” he said. “We are its master and its servant.”
He tucked his hands into his long sleeves and began to pace again. “We are the masters of fire, for we have dominion over it.” Elxa Dal struck a nearby brazier with the flat of his hand, making it ring softly. Flames kindled in the coal and began to lick hungrily upward. “The energy in all things belongs to the arcanist. We command fire and fire obeys.” Dal walked slowly to the other corner of the room. The brazier at his back dimmed while the one he walked toward sparked to life and began to burn. I appreciated his showmanship.
Dal stopped and faced the class again. “But we are also servants of fire. Because fire is the most common form of energy, and without energy, our prowess as sympathists is of little use.” He turned his back to the class and began erasing formulae from the slate board. “Gather your materials, and we’ll see who has to knock heads with E’lir Kvothe today.” He began to chalk up a list of all the student’s names. Mine was at the top.
Three span ago, Dal had started making us compete against each other. He called it dueling. And though it was a welcome break from the monotony of lecture, this most recent activity had a sinister element too.
A hundred students left the Arcanum every year, perhaps a quarter of them with their guilders. That meant that every year there were a hundred more people in the world that had been trained in the use of sympathy. People who, for one reason or another, you might have to pit your will against later in life. Though Dal never said as much, we knew we were being taught something beyond mere concentration and ingenuity. We were being taught how to fight.