Page 10 of Reluctant Wizard

“The thing is,” Professor Cixin continued, “fear or not, you must learn to control your magic to the finest degree possible. Only then can you make a considered decision on how to employ your immense power—and only then can you have any hope of following through on any resolutions you might make regarding the ethical use of it.”

Alise stared at him, disconcerted. “Maybe,” she finally said, “there are some abilities no person should ever have.”

“That could well be. However, whether you have them is not up to you. Whether you use your abilities, what you use them for, that is all you can control. And for that, you must study and apply yourself. You must engage in diligent practice. Only by knowing exactly how to do something can you make a choice not to do it, and also exert the control required of you to stick with that resolve. Otherwise you will become a danger to yourself and to the Convocation. Am I understood?”

She didn’t love that answer, but she had to admit the sense of his argument. “I understand,” she acknowledged, her voice sounding as glum and, well, spiritless as she felt.

Cixin regarded her somberly. “Despite my lack of psychic potential, I can nevertheless intuit that there is much you haven’t confided still.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to protest. “No, I shall not press you for further answers. You are at the center of a brewing storm, young Alise, and I do not envy you what you have thus far endured, nor the role you’ll play in what is yet to come. I am telling you now, however, that you may trust me. I do not expect you to do so immediately or easily, but I will teach you everything I know and guide you into the uncertain realm of what I do not know when you surpass me, which you inevitably will. Remember that and come to me when you need to.”

Even more taken aback, Alise nodded.

“In the meanwhile, you will return during your next free period to make up today’s exercise,” he said crisply, banishing the silencing spell.

Alise nearly groaned aloud, biting back the question, what free period? “Yes, Professor.”

“As soon as you demonstrate your competency with it, you will be free to go,” he added. “I do not imagine it will take long, if you actually apply yourself.”

No, that was true. “Thank you, Professor Cixin,” she said, with considerably more enthusiasm.

“You can thank me by learning your assignment,” he replied, more brusquely, stacking his notes together. “Remember: diligent practice will serve you well. Now, off with you to the dining hall. You look hungry.”

She was hungry, but also still queasy, so she didn’t know if she’d be able to eat. Probably she should try, so that everyone would stop trying to feed her. Exiting the classroom at last, she flinched when a tiny Ratsiel courier flew at her. Just a messenger, she told herself scornfully. Stop jumping at the least little thing.

Taking the folded paper, she read Cillian’s message and sagged against the wall of the busy hall, students parting around her as if she were a piece of furniture, ignoring her easily. Good news was, he hadn’t been fired. Bad news? Cillian had been appointed to supervise her independent study and expected her in the archives later.

What in the dark arts was she going to tell him? Gordon Hanneil’s nasty compulsion flexed, reminding her she could say nothing.

Whatever she did manage to say, it would have to be firm. And final.

~6~

Cillian tucked the fresh kolaches into a basket, fussing a little with the cloth napkin as he tucked a tiny fire elemental into the folds to keep them warm. He’d fed Alise enough cinnamon rolls, he’d decided, and while sweets always had a place in the world, he worried about Alise getting sufficient protein. Ever since the battle at House Phel, she’d looked thin to the point of fragility, too pale, and strained to breaking. Knowing her, she’d skipped the evening meal in the dining hall to catch up on her schoolwork. The meat-stuffed pastries smelled hot, fragrant and delicious. Alise wouldn’t be able to resist.

She hadn’t replied to his earlier message, but he hadn’t really expected her to. As a general rule, students didn’t have access to Ratsiel couriers. Even those students with families who could afford personal couriers were allowed to use them only for external communication with their sponsoring houses, not within the academy. That was reserved for staff and faculty. No teacher wanted a swarm of Ratsiel couriers interrupting their lectures. So, he wasn’t surprised not to hear from her, but he was bothered, and then concerned, when she didn’t show.

He kept an eye on the antique El-Adrel clock as it ticked away the evening hours and the library gradually emptied out. Cillian always liked taking the night shift—which was fortunate, as him being the newest hire meant he didn’t have a choice—because of the quiet that allowed him to read and pursue his own modest research projects. Now the lack of busy work felt crushing as he fretted, continually checking that the elemental had kept the pastries warm in the drawer he’d stowed the basket in. It hadn’t taken him long to catch up on the small backlog of work and correspondence from his absence. He wasn’t all that important, far from irreplaceable, which was usually fine by him. But time moved slowly, dragging by as the few queries from students and faculty needing assistance had dwindled to nothing as the witching hour approached.

And still no Alise.

He went back and forth any number of times on sending her another message, but that would be weird and needy. She’d received his note. The courier he’d sent had confirmed delivery, as had the small enchantment he’d embedded to alert him when it had been read. Besides, he told himself, Alise had often not made it to the library until this late or later, with the insane hours she kept. No doubt her schedule was even worse than before, with her additional absence. And her backlog of work would not have been light. Or, she could have turned in early, getting rest and taking care of herself for once. He could hardly be irritated about that.

Though she could have told him.

No, he reminded himself of that, too—she owed him nothing. They didn’t have the kind of relationship where she would let him know what she was up to or what she was doing or even how she felt about anything. Alise was a closed book, nearly impossible to read, and not for him to pry open anyway.

Still, he was her supervisor on this independent study now and she could have given him at least the courtesy of—

He lost the irate thought when Alise walked into the library, looking like the ghost of some ancient princess. His heart gave a helpless, hopeless lurch at her exquisite, ethereal beauty, and he knew himself to be a lost man. Her gaze fastened on him with unerring precision—no surprise there, as he was always in the same spot—her wizard-black eyes luminous with some pain that hadn’t been there the last time he saw her.

Mundanes thought that all wizard eyes were equally black, and there was some truth to that. Aside from the early days post-manifestation, when a wizard’s eyes gradually darkened with magic use, at faster or slower rates, depending on how much they practiced and how powerful their native magic, all wizards had black eyes. And black was black, more or less. But Cillian had made a study of it—and had done a bit of research into the phenomenon, out of curiosity—and he’d decided he could discern a great deal about a wizard by the depth, shine, and, for want of a better descriptor, sharpness of the iris coloration.

Alise had beautiful eyes, not only because of their large size in her piquant face, the lavish fringe of her lashes, and elegant framing of her arched brows. No, it had to be because her black shimmered like a starless night, profound and full of the secrets of the universe. Alise complained that her slight stature made people treat her as younger than she was. Those people were fools. They needed only look into her soulful gaze to see someone far older occupied that delicately shaped skull. Privately, Cillian thought people saw the inherent wistfulness in Alise’s resting expression, something she was unaware of. That wistfulness made him want to cuddle her on his lap and feed her bites of melting sweet pastry until she smiled with true warmth.

Alise cocked her head at him, her blue-black hair sliding in glossy feathers around her perfect face. “Are you quite yourself, Wizard Harahel?” she prompted, making it clear she’d addressed him once already.

“Erm, ah, yes,” he stuttered, sounding like the fully bedazzled and brainless idiot he was. “Ah, hi. How have you been doing?” There was so much he wanted to know, needed to ask.

“I’m fine. How are you?” she returned politely, with the vaguest hint of impatience.

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