Wistram Days (Pt. 6) (1/2)

On a controversial report published by one of the foremost [Emissaries], Trixal Therest in the year 2 A.F., he listed Wistram as one of the most powerful factions in the world. Trixal’s report was issued to one of the Great Companies of Baleros who had hired him to write the primer, but it soon became widely disseminated across the world.

Other [Historians], [Diplomats], and other notable cosmopolitans soon voiced their outrage over Trixan’s report, which was claimed to be inaccurate and grossly misleading not to mention biased. However, while many charges were leveled at the characterization of other world powers, no words were spoken against Wistram’s position. For Wistram was an undisputed world power, if an often quiet one.

Mages. They worked for lots of gold and sometimes caused trouble, but they were indispensable. Of course, any organization that trained young spellcasters could be a threat, and other nations competed with each other to create their own institutions of magic now and then. But Wistram was safe from such politics, or indeed most wars due to its famed neutrality.

If the mages of Wistram did take part in a war, it was by declining to provide services, boycotting specific groups or countries, and so on. Few times in recorded history did mages fight on battlefields against a specific kingdom or empire. When mages did take to the field in numbers, it was against common enemies such as the Demonfolk of Rhir, or against a Goblin King or similar calamity.

Still, were it not for the benefits Wistram provided to all, it surely would have been taken over by one nation or other over the countless years it had existed. Wistram occupied a central point for all ships crossing the ocean, providing them with a place to trade, sell, and resupply. Yet few armies had ever taken Wistram by force, and none had ever breached the gates since the Golems of Archmage Zelkyr’s had been created to protect the isle.

But what kept Wistram alive? Trade was only a part of the mage’s economy, and that by itself would not allow mages to live in such splendor. No, it was the unparalleled quality of their education. A mage may be made of any fool with a basic grasp of magic, but of Wistram mages, it was said that the weakest of them was a match for any Silver-rank adventurer.

And that was broadly correct. A mage passed by Wistram was almost always a studied graduate of at least six years, capable of casting many spells and studied in a wide variety of fields. She or he or they owed it all to the rigorous training given to them by their teachers, older mages who imparted their knowledge to the new students.

That was the true value of Wistram. Its teachers. Each one defined the experience the students would go through year to year, and so it was small wonder the students quickly learned which teachers could be appeased, which ones were competent and which were barely able to convey their subject matter and of course, which ones were to be feared.

The teacher for basic combat magic this year was not happy. Few teachers saddled with the job were. Teaching magic to the newest students, those that had passed their entrance exams, was not an easy job, and the salary provided by the council was meager. It was a task mages fought to avoid.

Perhaps that was why this mage was angry. Then again, it could have just been her personality. All the new students knew was that their teacher was as terrifying as she was good at ice magic. And whenever they saw her in the hallways, or now, entering the banquet hall for breakfast, they took care to greet her deferentially while clearing a path.

“Good morning, professor.”

“Hello, professor.”

It was a title of respect. And fear. The students backed away from their magic teacher, letting her select her food and pile it onto a plate before moving away to their collective relief. The teacher stalked away towards a far table, face frozen with a hostility that her students had grown to dread.

“Hoi, teacher! Over here!”

Someone waved to her. The mage turned. Her face changed little, but she scowled as she sat down with a few other mages for breakfast. One of them grinned at her.

“Hi there. How’s it going, professor Ceria?”

Calvaron stared at Ceria Springwalker’s glaring face for a few more seconds and then burst out laughing. He howled with mirth as he pounded the table Beatrice and Mons sat at. Ceria kept glaring until the Centaur had finished.

“You done? Because if you’re not, I’ll shove an icicle so far up your—”

“Whoa there, don’t take it out on me! Please, professor, show mercy!”

The Centaur raised his hands in mock fright. He grinned at Ceria, still sniggering at her. She wanted to throw her plate at him, but it wouldn’t be worth it. Calvaron had been laughing about the title her students had given her since the year had started. She growled as she cut into the steak slathered with butter on her plate.

“I keep telling them not to call me that.”

“Yes, but you know students. They have to have a nickname for their teachers, and I think ‘professor’ suits you quite well. Don’t you, Beatrice?”

The Dullahan looked up from her plate and nodded her head with her hands. She had a book open by her head and was alternating between staring at that and nibbling on cheese.

“It’s a better name than Scaleslough. That’s what they called our old teacher.”

“Dead gods, I’d forgotten! We used to call old Tshya that all the time! That brings back memories.”

The Centaur smiled at the memory, but Beatrice did not. She looked at Ceria.

“How are classes going?”

“How do you expect? Badly.”

Ceria made a face as she forked a dripping piece of meat into her mouth. She wanted to grimace, but the hot meat made her too happy to properly grouch. Instead, she only sighed, sipping at the sweet juice in her cup as she stretched out on the comfy cushioned seats she’d grown used to.

“All these new students don’t know the difference between a fire spell and a water one, I swear. Their magical composition is terrible, they can’t compress their mana correctly, their aim is so bad I have to put up a ward or they’ll hit each other—”

The half-Elf broke off, affronted as Calvaron and Beatrice laughed at this. Mons had to smile too, although she tried to look away from Ceria. Ceria growled as she eyed her friends.

“What’s so funny?”

“Sorry, Ceria. It’s just that—every teacher always says the same thing about their students.”

Calvaron chuckled as he explained.

“All the mages who have to teach say it. And all of the older students say it too. Why, not two years ago I heard all the older mages saying it about your year.”

“They did not.”

Beatrice nodded, smiling.

“Did too. And now you’re saying it. It’s funny.”

Ceria turned her head to stare at Montressa. The younger girl turned red, but she grinned sheepishly at Ceria.

“Calvaron and Beatrice said you’d complain, Ceria. But it’s a good thing you do, isn’t it? It means you care about your students.”

“Well…I’m their teacher. I have to care.”

Ceria hunched her shoulders defensively. Calvaron wagged his finger at her.

“Ah, ah. Don’t be modest, Ceria. I hear good things about your class. You may torture your students—”

“I do not—”

“—torture them with lessons harder than all the rest of their classes combined, but they’re learning a lot from you. The students can tell, for all they think you’re the scariest half-Elf they’ve ever met. You’re doing a good job.”

“Well.”

Ceria couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. She tried not to blush, but knew her ears had turned slightly red.

“It’s just a job. I didn’t want it. It’s a pain and it’s keeping me from studying—anyways, it’s fine. What about you three? I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to catch up with you all this year.”

The other students sitting at Ceria’s table shrugged. She eyed Calvaron and Beatrice, largely unchanged since she’d gotten to know them. The only real difference was that Calvaron was a bit heavier, having gained weight, and Beatrice had upgraded her plain metal armor with a new coat of paint and what looked like steel mixed in with the common iron.

They had grown. But so had Mons, and in far more dramatic ways than the other two. In the year after the infamous day when Ceria had been caught up in a battle at sea with a powerful pirate navy, the young girl had turned into a young woman.

Humans grew up so fast. In one year, Mons had finished most of her adolescence and become, well, as physically old as Ceria. She had grown two inches taller, and her hair had gotten longer. Her breasts were a bit bigger, she had a bit more muscle, and she was more confident than the girl Ceria had met.

Now Mons smiled at Ceria, the depths of her pale saffron-topaz pupils glinting in the morning light. She looked rather strange to Ceria, with her red hair and bright eyes. Half-Elves didn’t have red hair. Staring at her now, the half-Elf felt a pang in her chest. In one year, Ceria had barely changed, but Mons had transformed. How much different would she become by the time Ceria graduated?

“And you, Mons? How are classes in the second year?”

“Good! I’m really enjoying my classes on ward spells. I don’t know why, but I’ve got a real knack for casting them. I’ve gotten a Skill – [Layered Ward]! I think I could really specialize in that field!”

“That’s great news, Mons.”

Ceria smiled at the young woman while Calvaron and Beatrice made similar complimentary noises.

“You never told me you got a Skill, Mons! When was this?”

“Last week. And I told Beatrice, but I didn’t tell you because she said you’d just sell the secret to someone.”

Mons’ eyes twinkled as Calvaron spluttered and turned red. Ceria laughed.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve learned how to put Calvaron in his place. I thought you’d be in real trouble with me gone.”

“It’s not been the same without you, Ceria.”

Calvaron sighed and shook his head.

“Mons and Beatrice try, but no one has your sharp tongue—or penchant for kicking and throwing things at people. I keep telling them, only you can kick like a real Centaur.”

“Shut up.”

“No, I’m serious. Ever since you went off and had to become Illphres’ apprentice, things have been so lonely. How could you just abandon us like that?”

“You’re disgusting. Didn’t you win a bundle for betting I’d be able to do it when everyone said I didn’t have a chance?”

“Of course. But that’s that and this is this.”

Calvaron smiled smugly, causing Ceria to flick her fingers and spray a cloud of snow in his face. He yelped as the freezing snowflakes melted on his fur.

“Aah! That’s the Ceria I know and love!”

She had to laugh at that. Ceria eyed Calvaron as she finished her food. He really hadn’t changed much. And yet, she knew he had taken his own steps towards becoming a mage over the year.

“How’s your own work going, Calvaron? You’re in your sixth year, now. One more and you’ll be able to call yourself a mage. Excited?”

“Hah. Terrified is more like. I’m practicing my tail off for the exam, but really, I’m more worried about collecting secrets and coin right now.”

Calvaron flicked his fingers, making the water on his face and arms vanish in a puff.

“Being a mage means I’ll really get embroiled in faction politics. I want the coin and secrets to, well, keep doing as I’ve done. I figure that without classes, I’ll be able to establish myself as a really influential broker between all the sides in Wistram.”

“Or you could take one and keep studying instead.”

Beatrice turned her head to frown at Calvaron. He avoided her gaze and Ceria sighed. She knew he and Beatrice had been fighting about his future. Calvaron was content to earn a living and continue being the affable Centaur everyone went to when they wanted to sell or buy things, but Beatrice wanted him to join her faction, the Revivalists.

It was an argument Ceria wanted no part of, so she sat back as Calvaron cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I’m…not interested in their goals, you know that, Beatrice. I support some of their agendas, but other things they say—I can’t. Anyways, I need to be neutral. You know that.”

She said nothing, just narrowed her eyes. To break the tension, Mons turned brightly to Ceria.

“So, um, Ceria. How are things between you and Pisces? Have you seen him around?”

The mood at the table—froze. Beatrice turned the head in her hands to stare at Mons and the girl flinched. Calvaron covered his face with his hand and Ceria stopped eating.

“I haven’t seen him around recently.”

“Neither have I. I suppose he’s studying quite a lot. But you know, that’s how it is. We’re so busy studying—Ceria, how are lessons with Illphres going? Does she expect as much from you as you do from your students?”

Mons ignored Calvaron’s desperate attempt to shift the conversation. She stared at Ceria.

“I spoke with him the other day. He was teaching me about how to use the [Flame Arrow] spell more effectively.”

“Oh?”

Ceria looked at Mons, surprised.

“You still…keep in touch with him?”

“I see him at least once or twice a week. He’s busy—studying—a lot, but he could use some visitors. I think it might be good if you talked with him.”

Mons met Ceria’s eyes squarely. The half-Elf didn’t know what to say. Across the table, Calvaron fiddled with his fork and Beatrice turned her head back to her spellbook without a word.

“I’ll—think about it.”

That was all Ceria could come up with. Mons nodded, and the table fell into a deep silence.

Even after a year, there was one word, one name that couldn’t be spoken aloud.

Pisces.

Ceria closed her eyes and pushed her plate back a bit, no longer hungry anymore. Even now, after so many months—

It still hurt. It still made her stomach churn.

Pisces was a [Necromancer].

The entire academy knew about it, now. The new students learned this fact within days of arriving. There was a necromancer studying among them. A twisted, deranged madman who experimented with the dead.

What could be more abhorrent? What could be more wrong? Necromancers had existed since the dawn of magic, but today they were shunned and feared. Famous examples among their kind had been used to haunt children’s dreams for generations, and the tale of Az’kerash, the horror that had brought death to two continents for hundreds of years before being slain, still lurked in everyone’s memory.

Necromancy was evil. Few species could look into the rotting, dead eyes of a corpse and see anything but wrongness there. Perhaps the Selphid students sympathized with Pisces, and maybe there were those who quietly thought he did nothing wrong. But they were silent and the rest of the academy turned their backs on him.

Including Beatrice. The first time he had come to sit with them after his trial she’d nearly attacked him herself. Calvaron had—he hadn’t attacked Pisces, but neither could he look the young man in the eye. Ceria couldn’t either. Only Mons had stayed by Pisces’ side.

“Do that.”

The young woman nodded to Ceria, looking around the table seriously. She still trusted Pisces, still talked with him. Ceria could understand—but not condone.

He raised the dead. If she came to grips with that, he had still lied to her about who he was. She’d known him for over a year and he’d lied to her.

“Well, I think I’m ready for an after-breakfast dessert. Anyone want something?”

Calvaron heaved himself up and Beatrice caught at his arm.

“You’ll get fatter. Don’t eat.”

“Beatrice—”

“Actually, before you go Calvaron, I did have some business to discuss with you.”

Ceria interrupted the upcoming squabble. She saw Calvaron brighten as he looked at her and saw Beatrice’s smile of gratitude. Ceria tilted her head slightly as Calvaron sank back down.

“I’m always willing to help a friend out! What did you need, Ceria?”

“A ring or amulet with enchantments that resist ice and cold temperatures. I need good stuff, Calvaron. Not a shoddy spell, but one with the best binding available—something I could use if I had other enchanted items on me.”

Calvaron’s eyebrows raised.

“You need cold resistant magic? What, Illphres is too chilly for you?”

Ceria scowled at him.

“I need what I need, Calvaron. The question is, can you get it for me?”

He looked affronted.

“Of course I can! But it’ll be very expensive, you know that Ceria.”

“Price is no object. The highest-grade enchantments you can get, Calvaron, so long as they have no magical leakage. And I’ll need two of them.”

“Two? What for?”

Calvaron was alight with curiosity, but Ceria clamped her lips shut. She wagged a finger at him.

“Ask me no questions and I…won’t freeze your face off.”

“Ooh. I’m so tempted but—very well. I’ll ask around. You’re sure two? And you’re good for—alright, alright, I trust you! Talk to me in a week or two and I’ll let you know what I find. Okay?”

“Thanks, Calvaron.”

Ceria smiled and stood up. Beatrice looked surprised.

“Going so soon?”

“I’ve got to. Sorry. Illphres doesn’t have that much time and I have classes to prepare for—you know how it is.”

“Well then, stop by another time Ceria. You know where to find us!”

“Will do. See you Calvaron, Mons. Beatrice.”

Ceria waved and walked away. She levitated her plates into a wicker bin designed to hold them—a new addition to the banquet hall after the [Chefs] complained they were running out of dishes since students would pile them up ten feet into the air rather than send them into the kitchen—and walked out of the banquet hall.

By now, Ceria knew most of the academy back to front. The only places she hadn’t gone were the highest levels and deep into the bowels of the academy. It was still dangerous to wander in those places incautiously, but Ceria knew all the best shortcuts everywhere else.

So in less than five minutes, she was standing outside a door from which cold emanated. Ceria rapped on the frozen surface, ignoring the chill that made other students and mages hurry past her. She’d long since learned several spells to help with the cold.

After a moment, the door opened. A woman walked out. She nodded to Ceria—Ceria nodded back.

“You have eaten?”

“Just now. Do you want to have breakfast first or—?”

“Let’s go.”

Illphres walked down the corridor slowly. Ceria followed. Her relationship with her master, Illphres, was a simple one. Illphres ordered and Ceria usually obeyed. They didn’t waste time with greetings or chitchat, mainly because Illphres had no tolerance for it.

“Hey master.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Illphres turned and scowled at Ceria. The half-Elf took the glare unfazed.

“I get called ‘Professor Springwalker’ because of you. If I get called names, so do you.”

Illphres paused. She moved her hand past her mouth, and when she lowered it, she was smiling.

“They call you that? Hah.”

“It’s your fault.”

Ceria scowled as the woman turned and kept walking slowly down the corridors. Illphres just shrugged.

“So?”

“Most masters don’t make their apprentices teach their classes for them.”

“They should. It’s convenient.”

Ceria glowered. That was the thing about Illphres. She didn’t care at all about your feelings, and in fact seemed to delight in annoying other people.

And she usually came up with inventive ways to do it. Not that she’d deliberately gotten herself a teaching position for another year on purpose—that was just politics. But it had definitely been Illphres’ idea to make Ceria do the teaching instead.

Most masters made their apprentices get them food, or clean their rooms, organize their notes, assist with spellcasting and so on. But Illphres hated for anyone to do any of that for her—she wouldn’t let Ceria pull her seat out for her. And yet, she had no problems ordering Ceria to spend half her day teaching and preparing her next lesson for students when it suited her.

“I’ve barely had time to practice with all my lessons, you know.”

“But you do practice, don’t you?”

“Of course!”

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

Illphres led Ceria to a well-used set of rooms, looking at glowing stones on the doors until she found one that wasn’t lit.

“In here.”

They entered into the practice room. It was just an empty room, really. Some had furniture or other objects that could be used for magic practice, but most were just empty. This one had a white marble floor—enchanted of course, to protect against the spells mages would test in here.

Illphres paused in the center of the room and turned to face Ceria.

“Now, attack me.”

There was no warm up, no preamble. Ceria just raised her finger and started casting magic.

“[Ice Dart]! [Ice Spike]! [Frost Arrows]!”

The spells shot from her fingers in the form of deadly shards of ice, some as long as Ceria’s forearm and twice as wide. They shattered harmlessly on the sheets of thick ice that had materialized in front of Illphres. The woman let the slabs of ice hover around her, creating a multi-layered shield Ceria strove to break.

Her [Ice Dart] spell did little to the thick ice, for all it was a rain of projectiles. Ceria’s newly learned [Ice Spike] spell created a few cracks, but the heavier shots didn’t do much. And her final spell, a storm of fourteen arrows that shattered against the ice barrier and left Ceria gasping for air—did nothing.

“All done?”

“Yeah.”

Ceria gasped for air and wiped at her brow, despite the chill in the air. Illphres let the icy barrier around her dissipate, the ice melting into water which vanished, and nodded.

“Not bad. If you ignore the fact that you’d be dead if any of your opponents knew magic of their own or had a bow.”

That stung. Ceria looked up, glowering at Illphres.

“Most students my year can’t cast a Tier 3 spell half as many times as I can! My offense is fine—”

“But your defense is terrible. Why didn’t you raise [Barrier of the Winds] before casting?”

“I don’t know it yet. You’re the one who told me to focus on ice magic! Why don’t you teach me [Frozen Shield] instead?”

Illphres’ face didn’t change, but the tone of her voice was definitely a sneer.

“Bah. [Frozen Shield] is a terrible spell. Just buy a real shield if you want to block something. You’ll be better off learning [Wall of Ice] when you’re at a higher level.”

The two mages continued to argue as Ceria and Illphres took a position facing the far wall. Illphres made colored targets of ice appear and Ceria hit them, Illphres correcting her as they bickered.

“Don’t I get a say in what I learn?”

“Of course not. You’re an idiot whereas I know what spells are best. Your [Ice Spike] spell is flawed—see there? Correct it.”

Ceria gritted her teeth as she did.

“Why won’t you teach me more advanced spells? I want to learn more, not keep practicing one spell over and over!”

“Mastery of the [Ice Spike] spell is key to learning the [Glacial Spear] spell. Besides, you don’t need variety—you need to perfect the basics first.”

Ceria grumbled under her breath and her ears drooped, but she finished practicing without any more complaints. Illphres was an excellent teacher even if she taught in much the same style as her element. Slowly, exactingly, choosing to perfect every spell before moving on to the next one. Still, Ceria couldn’t complain. She had an excellent teacher. Although she sometimes wondered…

As Illphres was walking towards the door without a word of goodbye, Ceria called out.

“Master.”

“Call me that again and I’ll freeze your toes off.”

Illphres turned, her face a scowl. Ceria shrugged insolently.

“…Master, why do you need two enchanted items to protect against the cold? I know it’s not for me.”

The ice mage scowled deeper, reshaping the ice mask on her face to do so.

“Of course it’s not for you. If you couldn’t handle my cold spells by now I’d have gotten rid of you already.”

“Then who is it for? I talked to Calvaron, but he says it’ll be a week or two before he can find anything.”

Illphres hesitated. Ceria waited, hoping she would get an actual reply. Illphres’ eyes pierced her apprentice, and she seemed to come to a conclusion.

“Maybe you’re ready. But—”

She glanced around the empty room meaningfully. There was no one to listen in, but Ceria knew that an eavesdropping spell might not be detectable even if they cast [Detect Magic].

“I will tell you later.”

Ceria nodded and asked no more. She felt happy Illphres was willing to confide in her. Usually the woman just gave her orders and suffered no question. But perhaps she was trusting Ceria more? They’d been master and apprentice for over half a year now, and Ceria felt like she knew Illphres almost as well as anyone in the academy.

Drained from her practice session with the woman, Ceria exited the practice room, walking slowly down the hallways. She did not walk back towards Illphres’ room where she now had her own quarters. Instead, Ceria took a familiar route, one she hadn’t used in a long time. She walked down to the first level, and soon found herself standing next to a familiar door.

Pisces still lived in the same room he had when they were first-year students. He had no master. Ceria knew the room she had used to live in—and indeed, most of the rooms around his—were empty.

She stared for a long time at the door. Thinking. At last, she raised her hand to knock. Ceria hesitated.

Then she turned and walked slowly away.

—-

Ceria had no intention of talking to Pisces. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle the meeting, it was just that she didn’t want to speak with him. But fate conspired against her, or perhaps it was the finite amount of space even in a place as large as Wistram.

About a month later, Ceria found a knot of students and raised voices that was the sure sign of a duel, either magical or verbal, going on in one of the hallways. Pushing her way into the group, Ceria saw the duel was of the latter kind, and going on between a fourth-year student and—

Pisces.

Ceria’s heart skipped a beat when she saw him. Pisces was standing across from his opponent in a ring of bodies, speaking loudly. He had changed much since she’d seen him last.

Gone were Pisces’ rapier and the silver bell. It now belonged to Timor du Havrington, Ceria knew. And gone was Pisces’ smile, and indeed his normally semi-neat appearance.

Now his robes were dirty, a sign that he had little time or inclination to clean. They looked slept in, and ragged. Pisces had no coin to buy new ones. Ceria listened as the other student, a loudly-speaking cross between a dog and man—one of the Beastkin—concluded his point.

“—and so your foul practice drags down the status of mages everywhere. No nation respects a [Necromancer], and thus, why should Wistram? Why should we condone a school of magic condemned by the entire world?”

A murmur of agreement ran through the students listening to the debate. Ceria saw Pisces draw himself up. His posture was different. He hunched his shoulders more, and glared at his opponent as he sniffed and launched his counter argument.

“Necromancers have no place in the world? Who decides such things? Popular opinion? If that is the case, I must inquire, what of Archmage Nekhret? Was she undeserving of her title despite being tainted, as you seem to insinuate, by the foul practice of necromancy? She was a true [Archmage], not some pretender to the class! She represented the soul of Wistram over a thousand years ago—her bones still lie in the catacombs below the academy itself!”

“She lived over a thousand years ago!”

“Age is immaterial! My point is that she was an Archmage, someone who represented Wistram. Should she be condemned? No—more broadly speaking, can any group of mages be condemned for the actions of a few? I put to you, what about the actions of the infamous Burning Killer, Calico, who was just caught and executed in Chandrar? Do his actions define mages as a whole? Should we look askance at every [Pyromancer] because of him? Let me ask to you this question—”

As she watched, Ceria knew Pisces would lose. His arguments were sound, but he had lost his audience, probably before the debate had begun. When they voted, the group of students chosen to listen to the debate all voted unanimously. Pisces had lost, and so the winner collected his spoils—a small bag that might have had coin or something else—and walked away without another word.

The students dispersed, leaving Pisces to stare murderously at the ground. Ceria approached half-unwillingly. She hesitated before she spoke, but she did speak.

“I hope you didn’t bet anything valuable on that debate.”

Pisces’ head jerked up. He stared at Ceria in disbelief.

“Ceria?”

She met his gaze levelly. The shock faded and Pisces’ expression returned to normal. Now it was a bitter scowl and a sardonic crook of the mouth that was supposed to be a smile. He turned away from her, brushing at his robes.

“Ah, you mean the debate? I wagered nothing of consequence, I assure you. I am…used to the bias of the masses even when presented with the most rational of arguments.”

“So I see. Why bother debating at all, then?”

He glanced back at her haughtily.

“I suppose it is to prove that I have a voice, and perhaps to sway opinions. They are bound under a truth spell to vote for whomever presents the best case, you know.”

“But they hate necromancy.”

“Not all! I have had a few vote in my favor—”

Pisces paused. He sniffed again, and frowned at Ceria.

“Not that it matters. Why, pray tell, have you sought me out?”

“I didn’t. I was just walking and saw a debate was going on.”

“I see.”

The two stared at each other. Ceria shifted from foot to foot as Pisces stared over her shoulder. It was…so hard to see him like this. At last, Ceria sighed.

“I talked to Mons a while ago. She says she studies with you.”

“Mons? Ah—she does. She hires me on occasion to provide her with instruction.”

“That’s good. For you, I mean.”

“Yes, it does…help.”

More silence. After a moment, Pisces cleared his throat.

“You know, I am studying combat magic in my spare time.”

“Really? I thought you gave up dueling.”

“Ah, yes, well, I cannot seem to find a match. I have no desire to duel practiced mages and I seem to be boycotted by all other students—but I am attempting to refine what spells I know. Mons claims to have benefitted greatly from practicing with me.”

Ceria tried to smile, but all she did was lift the corners of her mouth.

“That’s great, Pisces.”

“Indeed. You are—you would be welcome to join us if you had the time. I realize you may be somewhat preoccupied with your classes, but…”

Part of her wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t. Slowly, Ceria shook her head.

“I don’t think we’re friends anymore, Pisces.”

He looked her in the eyes then. She saw hurt and pain in his, but Pisces didn’t say what was clearly on the tip of his tongue. He was about to, but bit back the words. Then his eyes focused on Ceria’s again.

“In that case, are we enemies?”

He stared at her, searching for something, eyes gaunt and bloodshot, his robes dirty. Ceria felt a pang in her heart and glared at him.

“Don’t be stupid.”

She whirled and walked angrily away. But Ceria knew Pisces was smiling, just a tiny bit, behind her. She murmured under her breath.

“We couldn’t be enemies.”

—-

Four days later, Ceria found herself sitting at a table with Illphres and four other mages. She was nervous, terrified out of her mind, and nearly knocked over her drink twice when she reached for it.

Illphres glared at her.

“Stop fidgeting.”

“I don’t see how she could, with you glaring at her so, Illphres.”

A tall Dullahan seated next to Ceria said that. His name was Jurix, and he was a powerful mage specializing in combat magic and physical reinforcement magic. Sitting across from Ceria, a Drake named Bastam winked at her reassuringly. Ophelia, the Stitch-woman smiled at Ceria, and the last mage, another Dullahan named Qum, nodded impassively at her.

That made Ceria feel a bit better, but she was still on pins and needles in the presence of so many important mages. She was sitting in the banquet hall, but at one of the tables usually claimed by older mages. It was made of some kind of expensive wood and the chairs were clearly expensive, if a bit worn, but Ceria would have preferred cushions.

And yet, it suited these mages well, because these five were all individuals who commanded quite a bit of influence and power of their own within Wistram. Each one was old; Ophelia, the youngest, was in her early thirties and Bastam, the oldest, was in his sixties, although he didn’t look it.

Any one of them—including Illphres—could cause an upset if they threw their influence into a political fight. Three of them were Isolationists—Bastam, Jurix, and Ilphres, while Qum was undeclared and Ophelia was a Centrist. That was surprising in itself, given the Isolationist and the Centrist’s longstanding rivalry, but apparently they had an understanding.