He clasped his hands behind his back and walked around the table, observing them. Arram broke two pieces of chalk before he realized he could just use a short piece instead of breaking more long ones. Then he and Ozorne spent time drawing curves and rubbing them out because they weren’t smooth or circular enough.
At last Cosmas raised a hand. “As you lads can see, Varice has done better by far—why is that, young lady?”
She looked at her circle and frowned. “When I help in the kitchens, they often put me to tracing the circles for the pastry cooks.” When she noticed the boys’ baffled looks, she explained, “All those cakes and pastries that are perfectly round, and the circles of spice on top of dishes—someone has to draw them in heavy paper and cut them out.”
“Why not use round plates as patterns?” Arram asked.
Varice made a face at him. “Because the edges aren’t even.”
“And magic depends on perfection,” Cosmas interrupted. “A mage must be able to create a perfect circle on the ground, in the air, on paper or chalkboard—anywhere. Arram, your hand wiggles.”
Arram hung his head.
“Ozorne, your lines are too short, and when you begin again, you don’t quite match,” Cosmas said. “When you go to work the spell, you will either have it break free of your control, or you will have to put extra Gift into evening the lines, just as Arram’s spell will go everywhere. Varice, you must learn to do your circles more quickly.”
She nodded. “Yes, Master Cosmas.”
The old mage stood. “Now, I would like to see nine circles of the same diameter on those slates. I fully understand you may not have all nine by tomorrow, or by the day after, but each of you must have nine circles, all perfect, before we move onward. You may not use your Gift, nor a round object.” He went to the desk in the corner and sat on the comfortable chair behind it, lacing his fingers over his belly. “Wake me when the bells sound for end of class.” He closed his eyes.
The three students looked at one another, dumbfounded at a teacher who napped during class. Finally they returned to work. Cosmas began to snore softly.
When the bells started to ring, they made noise as they gathered their belongings. Cosmas yawned and waved goodbye. “I will see you here tomorrow,” he told them as he struggled out of his chair.
They emerged into the open-sided corridor. The sun was baking the university. “That was…instructive,” Ozorne remarked, trying to fit his slate into his bag without smearing the marks on it.
Varice watched, smiling. The inside of her bag was filled with a number of smaller bags secured together, each with a different purpose. She was the only one of the three who could find everything in her carrybag right away. “I’ll tell you two what,” she offered as Arram finally thrust his slate and chalk into his own carrier, wiping off most of the last hour’s work. “I’ll get both of you the needed materials for a cloth container for your slates and chalks. I’ll even help you start to sew the proper bags, but you do most of the work yourselves.” She walked into the next room, nose in the air.
“Do we have a choice?” Arram asked Ozorne woefully. He could see what remained of the marks on his slate rubbing off onto the rough inside of his leather bag.
Ozorne sighed. “Not really, no. Unless you want to pay a seamstress to do it if she has time.” He walked into the room after Varice.
When Arram stepped over the doorsill, he halted abruptly, colliding with Ozorne’s back. His friend was frankly gawping at their new instructor. Arram knew her as the radiantly beautiful Master Dagani, who had been so kind to him the day he’d flooded his classroom. After a long time of only glimpses of her in passing, he saw that her beauty was enough to knock a fellow breathless, as it had done to Ozorne. She wore her wavy black hair pinned up in the heat. Her thin white silk tunic clung to her scarlet master’s robe. A gold-embroidered silk belt was wrapped several times around her waist, displaying a number of small vials decorated with vivid paints and gems.
Arram gently kicked Ozorne and bowed. “Master Dagani, greetings,” he said, trying to ignore Varice’s soft giggles.
“Welcome to my class in illusions.” Dagani came forward and cupped Arram’s cheek in her hand. “You look far better than you did the day we first met,” she said in her musical voice. “But you should take a breath and concentrate on your Gift. It is escaping your control again.”
Arram apologized and closed his eyes. Slowly he drew breath, in and out, ignoring the conversation around him as he let the flying edges of his magic fall back into himself. He found a handful of strands had wandered out of the room entirely, an event so strange that he forgot he was in class and let his mind follow them.
What in Mithros’s and Shakith’s names draws my power so far from me? he wondered as he tried to call it back to him. As he followed the strands down the corridor, past the masters’ classrooms, the gardens, and the student classrooms, he failed to notice that more of his power was escaping him. What he did notice was the interesting thing, the attractive thing, that was drawing his magic. It sang to his Gift far more sweetly than any temple or street musician. He couldn’t resist finding out what it was. He would do that, and then he would retrieve his power. That was his plan.
Then he struck the university’s magicked wall.
The power on the other side was moving. He had felt nothing like it before. It reared up, towering over the wall. It plucked his Gift with claws of fiery gold. Arram fought to yank his power from it, promising himself he would meditate until strange magics would battle to get free of him. The power was amused: it released the strings of his magic one at a time, letting them whip Arram as they returned to him.
Another Gift, cool and silvery, wrapped itself around Arram and yanked. He flew backward, away from whatever had entangled him, past the classrooms and gardens. His last confused thought was that he was going to die. He struck something with a hard thump.
Cold water trickled over his face and into his shirt. “I was flying,” he mumbled.
“Did you see it?” That soft, awed whisper belonged to Varice. “His Gift—it just flowed out of him, like…like ink!”
“It looked like the night sky, with stars. I thought he was dreaming something odd again, but awake,” Ozorne murmured. “Is he alive?”
“Of course he is alive.” That was Dagani. “Do his dreams always force his Gift to manifest?”
“Sometimes,” Ozorne replied. “I’ve never seen it during the day before.”
“Did you let him know that his Gift was doing things in his sleep?” Varice asked.
Arram could tell by her tone that she was displeased. He tried to wiggle his fingers to indicate that she should calm down, or make Ozorne be quiet. He wasn’t certain which he wanted to tell her, but it didn’t matter—his fingers wouldn’t move.
“Why?” Ozorne asked. “He wasn’t harming anything. And it’s entertaining when I can’t rest.”