I wish, thought Terjal Rakmir, Master of Cloudreach, wistfully, that I could continue schooling the year round, but alas, even the young ones have their responsibilities. Much as I'd like to, I can't keep them in class forever.

The fall semester at Cloudreach had just finished and, as usual, he was left with a vague sense of loss. He would not have students again until long after the fall and winter harvests--for the majority of his most promising students were often the offspring of farmers.

Sighing, Terjal let the heavy tome he'd been reading close of its own accord.

As was his custom for the beginning of each day without classes, Terjal consoled himself between the pages of a book. Deciphering the runes written by conjurers of the past relaxed him--and served to distract him, sometimes unsuccessfully, from further ruminating over his loss.

At first, when he'd expressed interest in creating a school for conjurers--which would eventually become Cloudreach--Terjal's father had favored him with a doubtful eye. Hurvin Rakmir served the Court of Tahlahnn of Ryndorhn as Court Sorcerer, as had his own father and grandfather; he had always expected his only son to follow in his footsteps. But, as a youth, Terjal decided that a career in politics was not a course he wished to take.

At Court, Terjal experienced firsthand the dangerous chess games that dictated the social lives of the rulers, as well as those around them. And he loathed it. How, he wondered to himself, could his father remain so virtuous in the midst of such a snake pit of greed and ruthlessness? Honesty appeared to be a liability in such surroundings. Likewise, it would seem, an impassive face and the morals of a cobra would be to one's advantage.

As political maneuverings were baneful to Terjal, so was magic a balm. In the Art he saw many truths: the truths of knowledge, dedication, discipline and loyalty--both to a ruler and to a principle. For Hurvin Rakmir, justice was of paramount importance and he often reminded his red-haired son that "leadership without justice is like walking a dark road without a lantern: one misstep can spell disaster to the individual and to the country."

But to Terjal, watching his father toil at both his workshop and desk, it all seemed so difficult! It distressed him to watch his father struggle so mightily to master the runes and not always succeed. Terjal realized that his father needed a mentor to help him master the more abstract areas of Conjuration, yet the elder Rakmir had little time with which to seek such information himself. What Hurvin had learned of the Art had been acquired at his own father's knee, for no schools existed for such formal training. To fill in any gaps, one would have to seek the knowledge on his or her own--and with his duties at Court, Hurvin Rakmir had little time to spare.

And so because he hated the idea of politics and the double dealing it entailed, Terjal vowed that he would not inherit his father's position of Court Sorcerer. He had a more worthwhile goal to accomplish: the never-ending acquisition of knowledge, and the subsequent dispersing of it. He would start a school for conjurers.

Conjurers, as a rule, hoarded knowledge of the Art and reluctantly passed only small portions of it to a handful of followers, students...and lovers. Terjal promised his father that he would be different from those miserly mages who hoarded their knowledge, and who sought to increase their worth in the eyes of those possessing wealth and power.

At first Hurvin Rakmir thought his son a bit idealistic, but soon realized Terjal's convictions were pragmatic enough to keep his judgments clear, and so gave his only son his blessing for such an ambitious endeavor. After all, hadn't it been Hurvin who'd shown his son the full scope of life and society: from the opulence of Court, to the dire poverty facing many peasants? How could such experiences not profoundly push his son to lofty idealism?

In the end, however, it was political artifice which had made Cloudreach's existence possible. Lord Vaukmond, the Duke of Windemere, disliking magic, but realizing its importance, reluctantly gave monetary support to Terjal and Cloudreach--in exchange for favors, of course. Terjal was not so idealistic that he couldn't see--or accept--the irony of the situation.

Terjal sighed heavily. So many thoughts for a day fraught with drafts and chills.

Through the window directly across from his ornately-carved desk, Terjal watched idly as the cold breath of late autumn churned the copper colored oak leaves outside, swirling them in lazy, looping curls. This would be his tenth year as Master of Cloudreach, yet he knew he wouldn't endure this semester's recess any easier than the first.

Terjal closed his eyes, smiling, as he remembered the astonished looks on the youthful faces comprising this recently dismissed class when he had appeared before them on their first day. In place of the gnarled and foreboding master conjurer expected, they instead discovered a younger and seemingly kindred fellow clad in a well-worn robe bearing chalk smudges and streaks of ink. Their assumptions were partly correct: only to the earnest and serious students did Terjal lavish some kindness--to the flamboyantly careless, he invoked harsh discipline.

Instilling discipline in his students was always at first a daunting experience. Terjal was well aware that he looked much younger than his thirty-four years. His hair, thick and dark red, flowed in waves to his shoulders: he left it that length not for vanity, but because he preferred to cut it himself. He cut his hair only when it proved a burden: whenever he bent over a book and the thick red strands pricked into the corners of his eyes, or if his hair took too long to dry after he'd washed it.

Terjal's beard was also not an affectation, but a convenience: for shaving each morning was a messy and cumbersome task which would take up time better spent on reading and preparing lessons. Luckily, the hair of his beard and mustache did not grow thick: rather lining his angular cheeks like grass along a path in a meadow. A generous sprinkling of freckles dotted his nose, making his bright blue eyes seem playful.

Terjal's youthful appearance was both asset and hindrance: a countenance which could both calm and distract.

Each class held a few gems: the dedicated students that made teaching so enjoyable--this last one being no exception. He would miss those students' eagerness to learn the conjurer's ways; never once complaining about the difficulty of the lessons. Their patience and determination made the task of lecturing that much easier. His students' success gave Terjal immense satisfaction that his teaching methods worked; so that even the failures seemed almost beneath notice.

But now the stillness of this sparsely furnished study was too abrupt for such reflection...

A discreet knock intruded on his thoughts.

"Yes?" Terjal said absently as he turned his attention from the window to face the slowly opening door. In the doorway stood the tanned war-scarred visage of Terjal's First Blade. "Ah, Darman, what is it?"

"A visitor," Darman's gaunt face remained impassive, his voice like a rough hewn chair: functional and plain. "Aiya Lindsmund."

"Aiya...?" Dark red eyebrows lifted in surprise, as Terjal's heart gave a little leap in his chest. "Did she say why she's here?"

"She mentioned something about 'internal control,' no more than that."

"Well then," Terjal's voice falsely cheerful, "let us discover what brings Aiya Lindsmund back to her mentor" Then, after a brief pause added, "I have a few things to...finish here. Go ahead and tell Ms. Lindsmund that I'll be down to see her...shortly."

Aiya, a messenger of all things! Terjal thought as he massaged his chin with thumb and forefinger once Darman had left the room. But another thought nudged that one aside: This must be important if she's willing to face me after all these years.

Aiya Lindsmund, one of his pupils during Cloudreach's second year, had shown the most promise of all the students in her class. Her innate talents had quickly caught Terjal's attention early on. He saw in Aiya the components of the perfect conjurer: responsibility, desire for knowledge, and above all that singular streak of creativity that turns a good idea into a revolutionary advancement.

Aiya's only problem, as Terjal saw it, was self-esteem. He knew that his star pupil came from a family of farmers, her siblings all brothers. After meeting Aiya's parents, Terjal concluded that the girl's lack of self-esteem was largely to blame on a domineering father who favored his sons, and a mother who acquiesced often to the males in the family. It was obvious that Aiya's parents saw in Terjal Rakmir the perfect teacher: one who could produce a well-schooled, marriageable gentlewoman, thus making her attractive to an affluent family. And since the curriculum of Cloudreach included reading, writing, astronomy and history as well as sorcery, Aiya's parents felt their daughter would be getting quite a bargain.

Aiya's parents never thought their daughter conjurer-material. They were quite wrong.

When her year of schooling was ended, Aiya completed the Final Trials with a flawless brilliance that made Terjal's heart swell. He'd always felt deep affection for her, but had always been afraid to approach her in that way. In fact, he kept such feelings well hidden from her and the other students, lest he be suspected of favoritism. To further cloak his fondness for her, he drove Aiya a little harder than the other students, confident that she could weather the pressures.

And so, once the Final Trials were over, Terjal sought to reveal his true feelings toward her. But Aiya had fled--to Quitonne, he'd thought at first. It was a few months later that word-of-mouth reached his ears of the whereabouts of Aiya Lindsmund. The news hadn't pleased him.

She had taken a position as Adjutant to Lord Vaukmond, the Duke of Windemere shortly after leaving Cloudreach. To Terjal's utter chagrin, Aiya had become what he disliked most: a politician. Swallowing his resentment at her choice of vocation, he journeyed to Windemere with the idea of congratulating her (but harboring a secret wish that he might persuade her join him as a teacher at Cloudreach).

But Aiya wouldn't see him. She wasn't blatant in her refusal, obviously in deference to her gratitude for his instruction at Cloudreach. But her excuse was so transparent, so careless in its delivery, that Terjal could only slink sullenly back to Cloudreach, whereupon he proceeded to prowl from chamber to chamber like a whipped hound. He refused food, sipping only enough water to keep himself alive. His Blades, Darman, Strandholt and Arjas, all watched him with anxious, worried eyes. Darman, usually stoic, nearly pushed a spoonful oatmeal against Terjal's mouth in a fit of exasperation as the conjurer lay curled upon a chaise in his solar.

But after a few days of this behavior, and a marked loss in weight, Terjal decided he'd mourned long enough.

A new semester had just begun, thankfully, leading him to new responsibilities, driving thoughts of Aiya Lindsmund from his mind. For a time, anyway. For in the next six and a half years, he traveled to Windemere often--usually to consult with his patron, the Duke himself. But Terjal couldn't help but inquire after Aiya time and again.

Time and again she gave reasons why she couldn't meet with him.

Now Aiya Lindsmund wanted an audience with him.

Terjal rose from his desk and quickly strode across the room, the hem of his faded yellow robe whispering in its wake along the room's only patterned rug. His anticipation began to turn to an anxious dread, slowing his pace as he walked down the ochre-colored granite hallway toward the Great Hall.

He had waited for just such a moment, but now he wished it had never come.

###

Terjal found Aiya Lindsmund standing quietly, her back to the entrance, in the center of Cloudreach's Great Hall, her slender form clad from neck to ankle in a fitted gown of thick, layered dark green silk. Over the gown she wore a cropped jacket of moss-colored velvet, plain and unadorned, but of obvious quality. A grey tooled belt hugged her waist. Jet hair, straight as a sword blade, fell loose and uncaptured down to the small of her back.

As she turned in response to the sound of his footsteps, Terjal noticed her polite reticence--as though she were waiting for him to speak first. The calm bow-like curve of her lips and the stoic set of her brows hinted at a maturity missing when he'd seen her last. Seeing her now, after so many years, made the old emotions, which he'd once hoped to bury, froth to the surface like a overflowing mug of ale.

"Aiya Lindsmund, what brings you back to Cloudreach?" He tried to keep his voice light, as if she visited him often. He really wanted to demand why she'd chosen to ignore him for the last seven years.

"The Duke requires your aid in solving a problem he has been unable to handle by conventional means." The solemn, overly polite response struck Terjal like a slap.

"The Weapon Master needs me?" Terjal said, using Lord Vaukmond's unofficial moniker--a name not sanctioned by the Duke himself. He wanted to see if the use of such an improper title might elicit a reaction from Aiya. It didn't. "Does this have anything to do with sorcery?"

"Yes, and that is what irritates him," Aiya replied, her expression still sober. "He will explain the situation in full detail once we arrive at Honor's Start."

"We should spell travel there right away," Terjal said, still searching Aiya's face for a change in mien. "I don't like waiting when there's a problem afoot."

"Do you have the spell ready?" Only the delicate widening of her eyes indicated her surprise.

Terjal wanted to tell her that he spell traveled to Honor's Start often, and had she chosen to give him audience during his many visits, she would have known. But he tamped down his sarcasm once more. "Always. You never know when you might need to leave unexpectantly. I assume you wish to accompany me?"

"Yes. I think it would be impolite if the summoned appeared before the messenger. After all," Aiya said, a slight smile tilting up a corner of her mouth, "the Duke is fond of protocol and he dislikes surprises. A word of caution: do not call him 'Weapon Master'; he hates that...title."

"I've used it before in his presence," Terjal replied, some of the bitterness melting at the sight of Aiya's faint, sincere smile. "I'm always careful to ration its usage, though. The Duke is more tolerant than he lets on." Then, his hands gesturing grandly toward the entrance of the Great Hall, added, "Meanwhile, my chamber stands ready and waiting."

An uneasy silence fell over the two conjurers as they made their way to Terjal's chamber, Darman following. Their shoulders met briefly as Aiya stumbled a little over an ill-placed tile. Terjal put his hand out to steady her, but she righted herself quickly without his help, making no comment.

As they walked, Aiya silent beside him, Terjal sighed deep within himself.

###

The heavy stone door of the chamber bore a simple decoration: a red hand with orange stars above each fingertip and thumb. Stopping at the door, Terjal turned to Darman. "I don't know how long my audience with the Duke will last, but I hope to return before tomorrow night. You know how to close the school."

"Aye," Darman said in his familiar monotone. "Do you want Arjas and Strandholt with you?"

"No, not now," Terjal replied, shaking his head. "I don't plan on staying long at Honor's Start and I doubt I'll be in any danger--despite His Grace's disdain for magic. Besides," he continued, smiling tightly, "it looks badly to distrust your ruler when he's gone to the trouble of summoning you to his side."

Terjal turned to face the door and placed his palm, fingers splayed wide, upon the painted scarlet hand. Responding to the warmth of his touch, the stars above each fingertip flared and pulsed like tiny brilliant suns. Silently, the heavy door opened.

From the vantage point of the hallway, the chamber itself appeared dark. As Terjal and Aiya entered it, the darkness changed to a violet hue allowing them to see without disrupting the introspective atmosphere. Terjal instantly felt the tiny, nearly invisible streaks of energy prick, then tug, at the flesh beneath his robe like curious insects. He glanced quickly at Aiya. If she's feeling anything, it doesn't show on her face. Indeed, her expression was as inscrutable as clean parchment.

Clearing his thoughts, Terjal felt his mind attune and settle into the familiar conjunction of his power as it coalesced with the aura built into the chamber's walls. Vaguely, he sensed Aiya respond to the magics as they formed invisible threads in continuous, coruscating patterns, stretching from one end of the room to the other.

He glanced sideways at Aiya and caught her steady gaze. "If you can't do this in your sleep," Terjal said in the stern tone of a teacher, "you're not the student I once knew."

"I could do this in my sleep," Aiya replied, her voice tinged with a touch of her old humor, "but I believe the best results are achieved while one is awake." She blanched slightly, as if her jibe might be improper. Continuing hurriedly, Aiya added, "It would be appropriate to spell travel directly to Honor's Pavilion. I've worked with the Duke long enough to know that once he sends a summons, he expects a prompt reply."

"I agree. I'll let you lead the way to Honor's Start; it's been a long time between visits for me."

Aiya nodded, her face now a mask of composure as she began to concentrate. Bringing her hands up to chin level, elbows canted wing-like, she began a rapid fingerplay in the air, catching the webs of magic and weaving them into a new pattern.

Terjal duplicated her handplay, observing the subtle differences from the last time he'd spell traveled anywhere. He hadn't spell traveled to the Duke's court in several months, but he still recognized some of the patterns.

Terjal watched Aiya's silhouette empty, then fill with bright amber light. The light began to pulse as if it were breathing; then it expanded and collapsed into itself, leaving only the acrid scent of seared air.

Moments later, Terjal also vanished in a blaze of gold, following in the path of his former student.

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