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The request had come down from the Archmage, and so I had set out to pursue.

The infiltrator had come at night, slain six of the academy’s guards and stolen several restricted volumes of lore. Archmage Keron had declined to inform me of the specifics of the theft, nor did he provide me with details of the tomes stolen. I was specifically instructed to recover the material unread, and that told me everything I needed to know.

Above my pay-grade.

I had seen the Academy stewards scraping the mostly liquescent remains of the mage-guardians from the cobblestones, and knew that my quarry was not someone to underestimate. They had efficiently and easily dispatched the guardians, competent combat mages all, and they must have defeated the more than comprehensive defenses and barriers of the academy’s vault. 

As I rode out of the stable block of the academy I saw many of my fellow students turn and whisper to each other at my passing. I didn’t need to hear them to know what they were saying.

Him, really?

Expendable.

He probably didn’t want to risk a promising mage.

I paid them no heed.

Mages were often held up as the virtuous pinnacle of learning and wisdom, but in my experience, most were arrogant fools. Egotistical, selfish, indoctrinated and inflexible.

None regarded me with much favour. I had not been born to a noble house, nor received formal training from a young age. They had received their training in stuffy classrooms from older generations of white-robed starch-arses, who in turn read from books written by even older, even more starch-arsed egotists.

I’d never taken much stock in their approach, though we had one similarity, one shared by all mages.

Secrecy.

No mage shared their knowledge freely, and seldom did a mage want to be seen at their limits. Spells could be copied, capabilities assessed, and weaknesses observed. Each pupil of the arcane observed a practiced apathy to their comrades, and held each other at arms length. 

This was never more obvious than with words. Classical arcane theory relied on the use of words. Each word had associated mental techniques. Mages learned to use words like keys to turn the tumblers in their minds, allowing energies to flow and be controlled. Each syllable was a step in the process, each intonation a method of refinement and direction. These words were held close, and those mages who developed new words were the most revered of all. 

Most students at the academy claimed to possess vast repositories of words, purchased from tutors with the wealth of their families.

And so they mocked me. 

A peasant boy from some nowhere village in the hills, I claimed to know no words. I carried no grimoire on my hip for reference like the others, nor did I spend my off hours reading dusty tomes in search of some abstract piece of a long lost lexicon.

Some thought me a liar, and thought that my insistence was a bluff to hide the bounds of my power. 

They were partly right, but only partly.

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I reached the inn on my third day of pursuit.

The fleeing infiltrator had left a bloody trail in his wake, and as I approached the roadside tavern I beheld the many bodies piled outside under the cover of the woodshed. Mostly we’re terribly mangled, and some were still smoldering.

Inside the lanterns were still lit.

I tied my horse to the post in the stables and walked in.

The man was behind the bar when I entered. He had pulled a stool behind the well worn oak benchtop, and was clearly helping himself to food and drink. 

He smiled bemusedly as I entered and took off my coat, hanging it on a peg by the door. 

I approached the bar and took a seat opposite him. 

“Want a drink?” He asked smoothly, “There’s more than enough for the two of us.”

I nodded, and he produced a stein of ale from behind the bar. His eyes never left me, and the smile on his face never wavered. I sipped the ale slowly. From my spot at the bar I could see a book, old and well worn, spread out across his lap.

“Good book?” I asked calmly.

“Oh this old thing?” he said, holding the book up from its corner, like a fisherman with his catch, “The plot leaves something to be desired, but the contents are quite intriguing.”

“I’m not surprised,” I smiled back at him, “I’ve never read a magical tome that didn’t make me want to bang my head against a wall.”

He laughed coarsely, “All the knowledge in the world these pompous mages, but they still haven’t figured out how to engage an audience.”

A few quiet seconds passed between us in the empty tavern, and outside the wind began to pick up, rattling the wooden walls of the building.

I let my smile drop.

“Unfortunately I still need it back.”

His smile broadened and I saw his mouth open to speak.

In my mind's eye I could already see the intention forming in him. He was preparing to speak the Aeliniki word for dissolve. A brutally effective spell for combat, and obviously a favourite for him.

I saw the inrush of energy as he channeled his will into that first syllable, drawing breath and power in. 

The second syllable would spread that energy out to entangle my body and the third would shred the matter of my body apart.

He never made it to the second syllable.

As his mouth opened to exhale I was reminded of the snakes that lived near my village, unhinging their jaws to consume prey. 

The man's jaw continued to open wide, far beyond its normal course. I could see the panic in his eyes as he realised he wasn’t in control. Then, with a sickening snap, it unhinged completely and the syllable he was trying to speak evaporated into a scream of agony.

The man fell backwards off the stool, knocking over a shelf filled with cookware. I slowly stood and walked around the counter. He was on the floor desperately trying to make coherent sounds with his broken mouth. To be safe, I recalled the heat of a roaring bonfire, and a vicious plume of flame flared in the wide cavern of his mouth.

He screamed again, and a plume of ash that had previously been his tongue and soft palate scattered across the floor.

Slowly and deliberately I surveyed the room and located the stolen books. I stacked each on the bartop, then turned back to the man, who was now struggling to rise. He had produced a wicked looking knife from the folds of his robes.

In my mind, I recalled the sound of dry twigs snapping underfoot, and watched as his legs snapped, deviating at right angles just above the ankle. 

He fell, sobbing and screaming back to the floor.

I knelt, just out of arms reach. 

“Mages,” I sighed, “So rigid and certain of your knowledge. So certain that you are doing things the right way. Taught in your classrooms. Taught from books and tomes and dusty scrolls.”

I willed him to look at me, and his body jerked and contorted to bring his eyeline to mine.

“I didn’t grow up in a classroom. I didn’t learn magic from some textbook. I saw it. I felt it. Do you understand? It’s not theoretical to me.”

In a valiant attempt at defiance, the man managed to gurgle out one last scream.

“Didn’t think so” I responded.

I recalled the way spring snow melts in the midday sun.

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When I placed the books back on the desk of the Archmage, he looked at me rather quizzically.

“Surprised?” I asked, trying not to let my irritation show.

He contained himself, and his expression returned to its usual haughty self-importance.

“No, not at all,” He stated, “Though they smell a little like beer.”

I shrugged, “I know bar fights are considered beneath the expected behaviour of a mage, but I thought you might make allowance just this once.”

He didn’t smile, but I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

“And you didn’t try to read the books?”

Again I shrugged, “They’re way beyond me, Archmage. I’m still working through my basic lexicons.”

The twinkle in his eye told me he didn’t believe me.

There were a hundred of us at the start. By the end of my time at the academy, the numbers were less than half of that, but that’s not important now. There were a hundred of us at the start and the examination hall wasn’t that big.

I remember standing there, shoulder to shoulder with the other initiates. I don’t know who was to my left. Twins, from the look of it, probably from the North. I never learned their names. The whole place smelled of nervous sweat and ozone, like lightning before it struck.

Celia was at my right, though I didn’t know her name at the time. She was only the tall girl in silver robes that shimmered like water in the candlelight. At one point, she turned to look at me. Her cool eyes swept me from the top of my frizzy hair to the thinning soles of my boots. She frowned--almost sneered--and muttered to the girls next to her, “I forgot they let just anyone join.”

In theory, it was true they let anyone join. Each village was allowed to send a boy and a girl each year. But in larger towns, where the competition was more fierce and every governor and baron and even professor wanted to give their kid a chance, they would gather up an offering and trade a poor village for a spot.

It wasn’t for nothing that the initiates and graduates from the Imperial Academy had a reputation for being fed with a silver spoon. Most were. The boy who should have been my partner, the second initiate from Redrock, was really the son of a Southern duke. His name was Gabriel. 

But at the academy, we would all be evaluated the same. That was the promise of this place. Even a poor girl from nowhere like me could hone her skills to become the best. 

Madame Beaumont, who stood at the front of the crowd, was the perfect example of it. She was a chambermaid before she came here--now she ran the whole academy and had a favoured place on the King’s council. 

Madame Beaumont cleared her throat. “Initiates,” she called out. Her magically-amplified voice carried through the crowd, and all of our murmuring faded to silence. 

I stood on the tips of my toes to see her better. I am not tall, and neither is Madame Beaumont, and I could only make out the curl of her dark hair and the swish of her dark cape. 

“You will come up one at a time.” Madame Beaumont’s voice echoed off the walls of the hall. “You will show us your best.”

A soft murmur stirred through us. We all knew this, more or less. The entrance exam was no secret. But even still, I had imagined there would be some extra twist to it, some specific task we had to accomplish, or beast we had to slay. To simply show off? It seemed absurd. 

My grandmother taught me everything I knew. She had never shown off her magic a day in her life. She told me time and again that we were not show horses. Our magic, she would say in her low and soft voice, our magic is ancient and powerful. I would nod along. At first, it seemed she was building me up in the general way adults encourage children--optimistic and yet hollow. Yes, you ran so fast. Look at you, you jumped so high. 

Into my teenage years, as my grandmother grew older, I suppose I saw her as out of touch with the world. Of course she valued our magic. She worked with the herbs and roots and potions and so thought those were the best, meanwhile in the cities there were automatons powered by magic and sorcerers who could stop a war with the wave of their hands--the demonstration was powerful enough to make another King think twice.

I had never practiced anything flashy. I couldn’t see the first initiate who came up to stand in front of the whole crowd, but a soft whistle cut through the tense silence. Overhead, next to the top arches of the window, a small spark fluttered around the room. 

When I squinted and looked closer, I realized it was fire shaped like a hummingbird, with beating wings and a curious head that turned as it danced through the air. The little things arced through the air and hovered nearer to my head, and I let out a small gasp at the beauty of the little thing, fluttering with wings that raced as quick as my heart. 

From there, the bird sailed back up high again. With a final flourish, the sparks that had been forming the bird exploded into a brilliant red firework. Soft ashes floated to the ground. 

I clapped my hands together. The rest of the crowd stood in silence. 

“Impressive,” Madame Beaumont said. “Take a seat to the left.”
The next initiate attempted to draw all the water out of the air, but ended up dosing the front row when his hand trembled. Madame Beaumont sent him to the right. 

And on it went that way. Impressive shows, much of it elemental magic. Columns of fire, spiraling water, one boy even drew a storm cloud over our heads. Some opted for more unique demonstrations--one boy crafted an illusion that made the whole examination hall fade away and left us feeling like we were on a mountain top. I could even feel the cold ground leeching through my boots and the snow on my cheeks.

A few managed well enough. Colourful clouds of bubbles, a waterfall of champagne, a girl that made her skin glow like a firefly. Nothing about these might have screamed power, but they were impressive and beautiful all the same.

For every few initiates that succeeded, another faltered. More dropped water, earthquakes no more than a chair dragged over the stone, and one tried to turn herself into a bird and couldn’t get beyond giving herself a beak. 

It became clear, quite quickly, that getting sent to sit on the left was success, right was failure. About a third got sent right. The rest got to stay.

The crowd thinned as we went up one by one. I tried to think of what I could do, but the truth was that I had not done much elemental magic and even less of the parlour tricks. 

Finally, it was time for Celia. After her, I would be next.

She stood tall and smirked as she conjured a knife and dragged it across her palm. Someone in the crowd gasped loudly. Blood dripped onto her silver robes, and a few drops landed on the stones, but without missing a beat she vanished the knife, ran her opposite fingers across the cut, and then turned the unbroken skin back to the crowd. 

It was a good move, I had to admit. Healing magic was no small feat.

Even Madame Beaumont looked impressed. Up close, I could now see her face: her eyes were bright, but her face was hard to read. Light wrinkles traced her skin around her lips and eyes, but paired with her dark hair, it was hard to even get a sense of her age. 

“Left,” she told Celia. 

Finally, with only around two dozen of us left, it was my turn. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t match the dramatics. The closest to my skill would be, of all things, what Celia had done. But showing healing magic right after Celia would show a lack of creativity. 

I stood at the front of the room. Everyone--both the ones still standing and the initiates already seated--had their eyes fixed straight on me. 

Madame Beaumont and the other professors looked on. Heavy silence hung over the hall. My heart beat in my ears and my stomach twisted into knot.

“Right,” I muttered and cleared my throat. Be impressive. 

I kneeled down, put my hand to the stone and closed my eyes. Deep below the stone and foundations of the school, there was earth. Soft dirt. The natural world hummed in a way that could never be matched by our creations. I pushed my magic into the earth and urged forward the long summer grasses. With each breath I took, I pulled the thread of magic nearer and nearer to the surface.

“What is she doing?” I heard Celia say and giggle.

My concentration slipped; the magic receded deeper into the earth. I shook my head, gritted my teeth, and pulled the magic forward with more effort. A bead of sweat trickled down from my temple.

Magic like this--it took time. I pulled and urged the spell forward, weaving the roots as it drew closer and closer to the surface. I had done this spell last summer, when food was getting thin and the cows needed more grass for grazing. Then, there were seeds much closer to the surface and the soil was fertile.

Here, the soil was dead and compressed, and I had to make the seeds before I even started to urge them to grow wildly. I didn’t dare open my eyes. I couldn’t stand the reality that everyone was staring at me. In any case, when I found my flow with my magic, it was as natural as breathing and the world fell away. What did I care if they stared? Magic was beautiful and warm, and being in my magic felt like dancing with a lover. 

Distantly, the sound of Madame Beaumont clearing her voice met my ears. 

At the same time, I gave the grass a final push. 

All around me, long, soft grasses pushed up through the stones. Instead of standing on the stone, I had my own little patch of field in the middle of the examination hall. It wasn’t much, maybe only a few feet all around me, but it was something. 

I pulled myself to stand straight and raised my chin. It wasn’t the most impressive showing. It had taken me a while. But I hadn’t botched the magic either, and that should be a point in my favour.

I bundled my hands behind my back and twisted my fingers together as I waited for her judgement. For ‘right’ or ‘left’. Either word would change my life completely.

Instead, Madame Beaumont stepped forward. “What’s your name?”

I froze. The hall was so silent. My hands shook, and I prayed my voice wouldn’t follow. “Joan, Madame.”

“Joan?”

I nodded.

“Of?”

“Of… Redrock.” There was no great house for me to claim, nor even an impressive parent I could attach myself to. 

“Right.” Madame Beaumont pursed her lips. “Joan of Redrock. Come with me. Professor Ashford will finish the evaluation.”

My stomach twisted again. The hall swayed at the edges of my vision; everyone was gawking at me like I was some strange animal. 

I couldn’t have done that badly, could I? I followed Madame Beaumont out of the examination hall, my legs heavy as lead. I couldn’t even take in the beauty of the academy. No one sees inside except for initiates, and there I was, following her out into the end of a cloister. 

We had been gathered for the whole afternoon. The early autumn sun was starting to sink, and the long shadows crisscrossed the path. A few older students were lounging in the sun and they, too, turned their heads to stare at me. 

“Joan,” Madame Beaumont started at the same time I sputtered, “I’m sorry, Madame.”

She held up one manicured finger and I shut my mouth and looked down at my boots. If I was about to get the telling off of my life, I would take it with as much grace as I could muster.  I tried to draw up straight and proud, but even though Madame Beaumont was around my height, energy and power rolled off her like waves and I felt tempted to let myself get knocked back in the current. 

“Who are you?” Madame Beaumont’s voice was low and sharp as a knife. “And who taught you to wield power over life itself?”