Two other desks were occupied in the bleakly appointed study parlor by lower phase pupils, neither outstandingly bright; still, that they were here this late (it was nearing the mid of night) spoke of commitment. Surely not the same sort of commitment—devotion—that filled Praulth's every waking moment, but perhaps one or the other of these two would last long enough to reach third phase, which was the minimum achievement necessary to call oneself a Thinker. Praulth had already attained this standing. Her aspirations ran higher.
Both pupils had huddled low over their texts as Master Honnis slid through the chamber. Both were now peering with lurid curiosity in her direction, doubtlessly wondering what dreadful task the old sadistic bag of bones had foisted on her.
She was more than a little curious herself. Honnis respected her. While that was indeed complimentary, coming from one so high in the University hierarchy, it also carried a price. The elder instructor expected much from her. Not merely a regurgitation of facts or the tepid reiteration of someone
else's analyses and ideas. Honnis wanted originality from her. He wanted unique insight. He pushed her, goaded her; and for her past six years here at Febretree, Praulth had met his challenges, gladly, enthusiastically. She wasn't arrogant. Arrogance was one trait Master Honnis was only too pleased to pulverize. She was instead only dedicated.
She set aside the document she had been examining for her own edification. It was a partial text said to belong to the war journals of Ao'mp Dit, a minor Northland warlord who ninety winters ago had dominated a small zone of the Northern Continent. That was, at least, until the Five Year Fever had come to the region.'
Praulth had her doubts about the text's authenticity, noting some terminology that didn't quite fit the age in question. She wasn't yet ready to point this out to anyone on the councils. The University took a great deal of pride in its store of ancient documents, so much so that they were under special guard in the Archive. She'd had to secure consent to see this text, in fact, a procedural detail she'd always found most annoying. Some on the University's councils had made their names by discovering or reinterpreting or translating those same documents. It wouldn't do to challenge this Ao'mp Dit excerpt before she knew if someone superior to her had a vested interest in it.
She straightened the sheet of parchment that had been flung down in front of her, peering at it in the steady clear lamplight that always burned in the study parlors. Pupils were encouraged to make use of the University's facilities (which made the restrictions to the Archive that much more contrary and exasperating), to explore and research points of personal interest that were outside the curricula. There were few things more tedious than an intelligent student that kept strictly to the straight and narrow and merely succeeded. So said Master Honnis, though Praulth had heard the sentiment echoed by other instructors.
The map on the parchment was quite detailed. Small blocks of neatly printed text marked various sites. Arrows in red ink showed advancements. It was, of course, a map of battle. Felk was the Isthmus's northernmost major city-state, and its military had recently launched successful hostile actions. Word had spread far southward, here to Febretree. Praulth had been eager for more news of the conflict. It might be that this would flourish into large-scale warfare. The Felk were also said to be using magic to aid their campaigns. That was most unusual. And most intriguing.
How different—and more interesting—that would be compared to the modern pedestrian contests that occasionally heated up amongst rival Isthmus states. They rarely developed into anything historically worthy, remaining petty squabbles that resolved little or nothing. Even this new aggression by the Felk might already have played out.
The map that Master Honnis had brought her said otherwise.
Praulth set about studying it, intently, letting her formidable analytical powers take over. Soon she had entered that nearly insensible state where external input barely registered any longer. Her bland, brown eyes still stared down at the parchment, but she had absorbed its information already. Now she was cogitating. Once a fellow pupil had pricked her arm with a pin when she was in this meditative attitude; she hadn't found out about it until afterward.
Sometime later she hurried from the parlor. Now only one of the other desks was occupied, and the student at it was softly snoring. Praulth's robe flew about her as she moved in unaccustomed haste. She wasn't only eager to find Master Honnis before the watch ended, as he'd instructed, she was also full to bursting with what her studies had uncovered. This was significant. It was perhaps momentous. It was at least the sort of oddity she and her kind could appreciate. Honnis, despite being uncounted tenwinters older than her and the least civil individual she could ever recall meeting, was, in a way ... well... her friend.
Master Honnis was also the head of the University's historical war studies. He would definitely appreciate what she had found.
SHE HAD COME to the small township of Febretree in her mid-adolescence, from her home estate in the nearby southern city of Dral Blidst. Her upbringing was a very comfortable one, at least economically, what with her family's substantial interests in the southern timber trade. However, none in
Praulth's family had objected when she'd made known her desire to pursue an academic life. In truth, they had seemed pleased to be rid of her. She had never shown the least aptitude for business, and there were plenty of siblings and relations to fill all the slots in the familial concern.
Her family didn't value knowledge for knowledge's sake; and Praulth supposed she could understand their view, since the sort of education she was so ardently pursuing wouldn't be of any real service in furthering her clan's timber enterprise. She understood. But she also still resented the slights and ignorant indifference she'd had to suffer before leaving for Febretree, the best—virtually the only—facility for higher learning that existed on the Isthmus.
Her burgeoning womanhood spent at the University, however, was something quite different from her younger days. Here she was encouraged to submerge herself in study, was rewarded for her scholarly persistence and was even, wonderfully, envied by fellow students who were in awe of her ability to absorb and integrate knowledge so proficiently.
History was her passion. As little as her family had sympathized with her academic desires, they were that much less understanding of her choice of study. History was done. History was past. The future, though unknowable, was at least of abstract interest. Surely only the present, the practical here and now, had any true meaning. Yet she was drawn toward yesterdays, toward events and people she couldn't witness or affect. Why?
Praulth didn't truly have an answer for that. She doubted that an individual who sculpted in stone could satisfactorily explain why he or she didn't instead weave tapestries or compose verse. History was her focus, and within that discipline she was most obsessed by the analysis of war.
It was odd, in its way. She wasn't a violent person by any means. She couldn't recall ever, even in childhood, raising a hand in anger. She imagined that if she found her-self on an actual battlefield, she would merely stand paralyzed in fear and horror until someone came along to cut her down.
Yet the study of war was something else entirely. Its connotations, its endless reverberations—nothing impacted history so dramatically. Courses of whole cultures were altered forever. Ways of life were annihilated. Power shifted wildly. Individuals who would have left no mark whatever on the world found themselves thrust into eminence. And of course countless others who might have made their significant contributions were prematurely erased.