The Magicians' Guild (35 page)

Feeling pleased with himself, Rothen rubbed his palms together. “Well, that’s that. Shall we start your lessons?”

She hesitated, then pushed her chair around to face his. Bemused by her eagerness, he took her offered hands.

Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing and sought the presence that would lead him to her mind. She was well practiced at visualizing now, and he instantly found himself standing before an open doorway. Moving through, he entered a familiar room. Sonea stood at the center.

A feeling of determination imbued the air. He waited for the usual disturbance in the scene, but nothing unwanted appeared in the room. Surprised and pleased, he nodded at the image of Sonea.

—
Show me the door to your power.

She looked away. Following her gaze, he found himself standing in front of a white door.

—
Now open it and listen carefully. I am going to show you how to control this power of yours.

Sinking to his knees, Cery let out a hiss of frustration.

He had examined his prison thoroughly, his breath catching in his throat whenever he felt the scuttle of eight-legged faren under his hands. His search had revealed that the walls were made of large stone bricks and the floor of hard dirt. The door was a thick slab of wood with large iron hinges.

As soon as the magician’s footsteps had faded beyond his hearing, he had taken a pick from his longcoat and groped for the door. Finding the keyhole, he had manipulated the lock until he heard the mechanism turn, but when he had pulled on the door it would not open.

He remembered laughing, then, as he realized that the magician hadn’t locked the door. He had just picked the lock closed.

Manipulating the lock again, he found that the door was still held fast. Recalling that he had heard the sound of a key turning, he had decided that there must be another lock. He searched for another keyhole.

Finding none, he decided that the lock holding the door must only have a keyhole on the outside. Taking his pick, he inserted it in the crack between the door and its frame. It had seemed to catch on something.

Feeling pleased that he had found the lock at the first try, he had tugged at the pick to remove it, only to discover that it was stuck.

It had flexed as he tried to twist or wiggle it free. Afraid he would damage it, he left the tool lodged in the crack and reached for another. This he inserted slightly higher than the first.

Before he’d had a chance to prod around to find what was holding his first tool, the second had locked into place. Cursing, Cery had pulled at it with all his strength, but he only succeeded in bending it.

Reaching into his coat for a third pick, he had slipped it in the gap between the floor and door. At once it became stuck. No matter how hard he pulled, the pick remained in place. He tried removing the others, with no success.

As dark hours passed, he had tried several times to retrieve his tools. He could think of no device that would grab and hold a pick so fast. Nothing except, of course, magic.

His legs began to cramp with the cold, so he rose to his feet. He put a hand out to the wall to steady himself as his head began to spin. His stomach growled, telling him it had been far too long since he had eaten, but his thirst was worse. He longed for a mug of bol or a glass of pachi juice, or even a little water.

He wondered, again, if he would be left to die in the cell. If the Guild had wanted him dead, however, he was sure they would have arranged it
before
hiding his body somewhere. That gave him some hope. It meant that their plans probably relied on him being alive—for now. If those plans failed, however, he might find himself getting very hungry.

Thinking of the other magician—the blue-robed one—he could not remember any signs of deceit in the man’s demeanor. The magician was either skilled at projecting trustworthiness, or he had known nothing about Cery’s impending captivity. If the latter was true, then this was Fergun’s game.

Whether the blonde magician was the sole plotter or not, Cery could see only two reasons for his imprisonment: the Thieves or Sonea.

If the magicians intended to use Cery to manipulate the Thieves, they would be disappointed. Faren didn’t need or care about Cery
that
much.

They might try torture to get information out of him. While he preferred to think that he could resist such persuasion, he was not going to fool himself. He would not know if he was capable of remaining silent until he faced such a trial.

It was possible that the magicians could read his mind anyway. If they did, they would discover he knew little that could be used against the Thieves. Once they realized that, they would probably leave him in the dark permanently.

But he doubted that the Thieves were their target. They would have questioned him by now.

No, the only questions he had been asked concerned Sonea. During his journey to the University, Fergun had asked what kind of relationship Cery had with her. If the magicians wanted to know if Cery was important to her, they probably meant to use him to blackmail her into doing something she didn’t want to do.

The thought that he might have made her situation worse tormented him as much as, sometimes more than, the fear of being left to die. If only he hadn’t been tempted to see the University. The more Cery thought about it, the more he cursed himself for his curiosity.

Between one breath and the next he heard the sound of footsteps in the distance. As they grew louder his anger subsided and his heart began to race.

The footsteps stopped outside the door. There was a dull metallic click, followed by the lighter patter of his tools falling to the floor. A long slice of yellow light appeared as the door opened.

Fergun slipped through, his light following. Blinking at the brightness, Cery saw the magician regard him with narrowed eyes, then look down at the floor.

“Well, look at this,” Fergun murmured. Turning to one side, he let go of the plate and bottle he was carrying. Instead of falling, they descended slowly to the floor. He spread his fingers out and the picks rose obediently to his hand.

As he examined them, the magician’s eyebrows rose. He looked up at Cery and smiled.

“You didn’t really think these would work, did you? I expected you to have a little experience with such things, so I took precautions.” His eyes dropped to Cery’s clothes. “Do you have any more of these hidden away somewhere?”

Cery swallowed the denial that came to his lips. Fergun would never believe it. The magician smiled and held his hand out.

“Give them to me.”

Cery hesitated. If he gave up several of the objects hidden within his clothes, he might be able to retain a few of his more valuable possessions.

Fergun stepped closer.

“Come now, what use are they to you here?” He wiggled his fingers. “Give them to me.”

Slowly, Cery reached into his coat and pulled out a handful of his less-useful tools. Glaring at the magician, he dropped them into the outstretched hand.

Fergun looked thoughtfully at the picks, then his eyes rose to meet Cery’s. A malicious smile thinned his mouth.

“Do you really expect me to believe this is all you have?”

His fingers flexed. Cery felt something invisible push against his chest and he staggered backward until he hit the wall. A force wrapped itself over him, pressing him against the bricks.

Fergun drew closer and examined Cery’s coat. With a jerk, he ripped open the lining to reveal hidden pockets. He plucked out the contents, then turned his attention to the rest of Cery’s clothes.

As he drew the knives out of Cery’s boots, Fergun made a small grunt of satisfaction, then a more appreciative “ah” as he found Cery’s daggers. Straightening, he pulled one of the weapons out of its sheath. He examined the widest part of the blade, where a rough picture of the small rodent that was Cery’s namesake had been etched.

“Ceryni,” the magician said. He looked up at Cery.

Cery stared back defiantly. Fergun chuckled and stepped away. Taking a large square of cloth from his robes, he wrapped up the tools and weapons, then turned to the door.

Realizing that the magician was going to leave without giving any explanation, Cery’s heart skipped.

“Wait! What do you want from me? Why am I here?”

Fergun ignored him. As the door closed, the magical restraints vanished and Cery stumbled forward onto his knees. Panting with fury, he felt his coat, cursing as he confirmed that most of his tools had been taken. He regretted the daggers most, but it was hard to hide weapons of that size.

Sitting back on his heels, he let a long sigh escape him. He still had a few items. They might come in handy. He would just have to come up with a plan.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Dannyl grasped Rothen’s shoulders, turned him about and pushed him out of his rooms. “If you hide yourself away you’ll only add strength to what Fergun’s supporters are saying.”

Rothen sighed and followed Dannyl down the corridor. “You’re right, of course. I’ve barely spoken to anyone for the last two weeks—and I should ask Lorlen to delay visiting for a few days. Wait …” Rothen looked up, his brow creasing. “What have Fergun’s supporters been saying?”

Dannyl smiled grimly. “That she learned control in a few days, and you’ve been keeping her locked away so Fergun can’t see her.”

Rothen made a rude noise. “What nonsense. I’d like to see
them
suffering some of the headaches I’ve had in the last week.” He grimaced. “I guess this means I can’t delay Lorlen for long.”

“No,” Dannyl agreed.

They reached the entrance to the Magicians’ Quarters and stepped outside. Though the snow was melted from the paths and pavement by novices each morning and evening, the courtyard was already covered in a thin white powder. It crunched under their boots as they crossed to the Seven Arches.

As they stepped into the warmth of the Night Room, several heads turned in their direction. Dannyl heard his companion give a low groan as several magicians began to move toward them. Sarrin, the Head of Alchemists, was the first to arrive.

“Good evening, Lord Rothen, Lord Dannyl. How are you both?”

“Well, Lord Sarrin,” Rothen replied.

“Any progress with the slum girl yet?”

Rothen paused as several magicians moved in to hear his answer. “Sonea is doing well,” he told them. “It took some time before she was able to stop pushing me from her mind. She was, as you’d expect, quite suspicious of us.”

“Doing well?” a magician in the crowd muttered. “Few novices take as long as two weeks.”

Dannyl smiled as Rothen’s expression darkened.

His friend turned toward the speaker. “You must remember that she is not a reluctant novice sent to us by coddling parents. Until two weeks ago, she believed we intended to kill her. It has taken some time to gain her trust.”

“When did you begin Control exercises?” another magician asked.

Rothen hesitated. “Two days ago.”

A muttering began among the magicians. Several frowned and shook their heads.

“In that case, I’d say you’ve made impressive progress, Lord Rothen,” said a new voice.

Dannyl turned to see Lady Vinara moving through the crowd. Magicians stepped aside respectfully as the Head of Healers approached.

“What did you see of her power?”

Rothen smiled. “When I first saw what was contained within her I did not believe it. The strength she has is remarkable!”

The muttering among the audience grew louder. Dannyl nodded to himself. _ Good,_ he thought.
If she’s strong people will favor Rothen as her guardian.

An older magician near the front of the gathering gave a shrug. “But we knew she had to be strong or her powers would not have developed on their own.”

Vinara smiled. “Of course, strength is not the ultimate test of a novice. What talents has she displayed?”

Rothen pursed his lips. “Her visualization ability is good. That will help her in most disciplines. Her memory is good, too. I’ve found her to be an intelligent and attentive student.”

“Has she tried to use her powers at all?” asked a red-robed magician.

“Not since she arrived. She understands the danger very well.”

The questions continued. Glancing around the crowd, Dannyl caught a glimpse of a smooth blonde head in a group of approaching magicians. He shifted closer to Rothen, waiting for an appropriate moment to whisper a warning.

—
Lord Dannyl.

A few magicians in the crowd blinked and looked at Dannyl. Recognizing the mind voice, Dannyl searched the room and found Administrator Lorlen sitting in his usual chair. The blue-robed magician pointed to Rothen, then beckoned.

Smiling, Dannyl nodded and leaned close to Rothen’s ear.

“I believe the Administrator wishes to rescue you.”

As Rothen turned to look at the Administrator, Dannyl saw that Fergun had reached the crowd. A familiar voice joined the chatter, and a few faces turned in the warrior’s direction.

“Excuse me, all.” Rothen said. “I must speak to Administrator Lorlen.” He inclined his head politely, then nudged Dannyl in Lorlen’s direction.

Looking back, Dannyl’s gaze locked with Fergun’s for a moment. The Warrior’s lips were stretched in a satisfied smile.

As they reached Lorlen’s chair, the Administrator waved to neighboring seats. “Good evening, Lord Rothen, Lord Dannyl. Sit down and tell me how Sonea is progressing.”

Rothen remained standing. “I was hoping to have a private word with you about that, Administrator.”

Lorlen’s brows rose. “Very well. Shall we talk in the Banquet Room?”

“Please.”

The Administrator rose and led them to a nearby door. As they stepped through, a globe light flared above his head, illuminating a huge table that filled most of the room.

Lorlen pulled out one of the chairs arranged around the table and sat down. “How is your leg, Lord Dannyl?”

Dannyl looked up, surprised. “Better.”

“Your limp seems to have returned this evening,” Lorlen observed.

“It is the cold,” Dannyl replied.