“After we eat, I thought you could give me a demonstration,” dal Drezony said. “Give me an idea of where we’ll be starting.”
Solène shrugged again. “What do you want me to do?”
Dal Drezony laughed. “I don’t know. What can you do? What did you do for the Prince Bishop?”
Pride would not allow Solène to repeat the same demonstration, but there were few things she could do intentionally. Looking along the table, she spotted an empty glass that no one was using. She focussed her thoughts, this time locking onto something different, something she had seen in the city, and had been wondering about ever since. She turned the glass upside down and stared at it. The air inside the bowl seemed to swirl and grow thicker, until it looked more like a liquid than a gas. Then it ignited into a light that bathed Solène and dal Drezony in a warm glow. Solène relaxed and smiled.
Dal Drezony watched in silence until the light faded, then disappeared. She had a pleased but bemused expression on her face.
“I saw the everlasting lamps when I got to the city,” Solène said. “I’ve wanted to try making my own ever since.”
“Magelamps,” dal Drezony said. “They’re called magelamps. And this was your first try at one?”
Solène nodded.
Dal Drezony let out a short laugh. “I wouldn’t let the fading of the light bother you. No one here’s been able to make them last very long either, and they’ve had a lot more practise. When did you stop concentrating on the light?”
“As soon as I made it,” Solène said. “It’s not much use if you have to concentrate on it the whole time, is it?”
Dal Drezony let out an incredulous bark of laughter. “No, I suppose it isn’t. You’ve definitely not had any training? If you have, you can be honest. It won’t get you in any trouble here.”
Solène shook her head. “Where would I have gotten it?”
“Darvaros? Szavaria, perhaps? Although I’ve not heard of any of their mages who can do much more you just did. If they could, they’d have conquered us centuries ago. A good magelamp with a clean, bright light was once considered the pinnacle of the magical art. Every novice mage would have to make one to earn their title of magister. It’s why we still have so many of them after all this time. Even in ideal conditions—perfect peace and quiet—I can’t do much better than you just did. You know, the finest examples hint at the personality of their maker—the hue of the light, the way it swirls within the glass sphere.” She chewed on a piece of bread as she stared at the upside-down glass. “To walk in here off the street and do that is beyond impressive. I can see why the Prince Bishop got so excited.”
Solène felt the warmth of pride fill her, just as she had when people had returned to the bakery day after day saying her bread was the best they’d ever eaten. She didn’t even notice that every eye in the refectory was on her. “I’d like to be able to make one that doesn’t fade,” she said.
“I expect you will achieve that, and sooner than any of us might have hoped. It’s exciting to have you here. I think I’m going to learn as much from you as you do from us. We’ve studied so much of theory, but none of us have developed enough power to properly apply it. Exciting times lie ahead, Solène. For both of us. But enough about work—that will begin in the morning. I’ll be calling on you after breakfast to get the day started, but for now I’ve kept you from your supper for too long!”
Solène was a suspicious person. Having magical talent in a land where magic was illegal had made her so. It wasn’t an enjoyable way to live, but her attitude had kept her alive. It made her question everything, and it was why she woke the next morning with a twist of nausea in her gut.
Everyone she had met the previous night had been welcoming and friendly, although she agreed with Seneschal dal Drezony that the bannerets were more self-assured than perhaps they should be. Nonetheless, they had given her the same welcome as everyone else, even if they did clearly think themselves the elite.
Food, comfort, friendliness—something inside her screamed that it was all too good to be true. She had spent too long trying to see the danger in everything to accept that she might have finally found her place in the world, and the fact that she had let her guard down the previous evening after so short a time there frightened her.
She had spoken to several novices who had been denounced for witchcraft, only to be secreted away to the Order for a new life. None had nearly the talent that she did, but their stories were much the same as her own. That didn’t mean she was safe, though. No one gave so much without wanting something in return. That the Prince Bishop hoped to develop and capitalise on her ability was clear, but what that would mean in practise she did not know. The uncertainty made her feel sick.
With her stomach in knots, she had woken before dawn, but had skipped breakfast, choosing instead to sit on the edge of her bed, wondering what was to happen next. Would someone come for her? Should she be somewhere that she was unaware of? A knock on the door suggested the former. She opened it to Seneschal dal Drezony.
“Now for the bad news,” the other woman said.
Solène’s heart dropped.
“We have to go running with the bannerets,” dal Drezony said. “Three mornings a week. No way out of it, sadly. Believe me, I hate running and I’ve tried everything I can think of.”
Solène took a deep breath and relaxed. “You gave me a bit of a fright.”
“Oh, be afraid. You haven’t seen the pace we’ll have to keep up with,” dal Drezony said, smiling. “Uniform Number Four is the uniform for running. Get changed and meet me outside. Suffering shared is suffering halved. Or so I’m told.”
Solène went to the trunk containing the uniforms the quartermaster had issued her. Each one came in its own linen bag with a large number on it. Dal Drezony’s comment—“Number Four”—answered one of Solène’s questions; it seemed the Order numbered its uniforms for different uses. She delved through the bags, realising she had two Number Twos, which she took to be the uniform for regular daily use, then found the one she was looking for.
Solène spilled the contents of Number Four onto her bed—light britches and vest, knee socks, and a light pair of white leather shoes. She changed, then met dal Drezony in the arcaded laneway. They walked in silence toward the front gate, where a large group of similarly attired people waited.
“It’ll be nothing but pain at first,” dal Drezony said, “but you’ll get used to it quickly enough. I don’t think I’d run more than a couple of steps in my life before I got here. Now it feels like I’ve run from one end of the kingdom to the other, but it’s all part of the Prince Bishop’s master plan—a strong, healthy body means a strong, healthy mind. I don’t think he’s wrong in that, but it’s damned hard work.”
Solène had run before, but not much, and only when trying to get away from something. It seemed they were the last two to arrive, as the group set off at a brisk pace as soon as they got there.
Dal Drezony stayed beside Solène as they ran—laps of the Priory around the inside of the walls—but thankfully didn’t try to engage her in conversation. She began gasping for breath after only a short distance. It was both flattering and worrying that dal Drezony paid her such constant attention. Was she really that special? Would she really be able to do things no one else there could?
The burn in her legs and chest made it difficult to think, pushing her anxieties aside. Dal Drezony breathed hard but seemed comfortable with the pace. Several of the men, who had introduced themselves as bannerets the night before, were chatting and joking as they ran, as though it took no more effort than falling out of bed.