Page 1 of Reluctant Wizard

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For the second time in her life, Alise Phel returned to Convocation Academy with her metaphorical tail tucked firmly between her legs. Besides the humiliation of it all, she didn’t even want to go back to school. Dark arts knew, both she and the academy had had quite their fill of each other.

And yet, here she was: literally kicking her heels outside Provost Uriel’s office, in a chair too tall to allow her boots to touch the floor. She could be eight years old instead of eighteen. That was a nifty intimidation tactic there, making the students called to the provost’s office feel like children in for a scolding.

It was enough to drive a person crazy.

Provost Uriel’s familiar, who also worked as her aide, gave Alise a sympathetic glance, as if hearing her thoughts. He couldn’t, naturally, as familiars were only able to supply magic, not wield it, but the aide didn’t need psychic ability to read her glum expression. He no doubt saw a parade of downcast students waiting to discover the newest twist in the fates they couldn’t control. Alise clung to her resentment, wallowing in that angry misery rather than in the wrenching guilt over having murdered her own mother.

A little interoffice Ratsiel courier buzzed in to sit on the aide’s shoulder. “Provost Uriel will see you now, Wizard Alise,” he said, giving her a bolstering smile.

“Thanks.”

“You can leave your things here,” he added.

“I remember,” she replied wryly. He’d made the same offer the last time she was there.

Alise stomped into Provost Uriel’s office, her big boots making a satisfying clomp of disdain on the lovely polished wooden floor. The waterproof boots had been perfect for the muddy, sloppy, and chilly-rain winter of much warmer Meresin, but not so much in frigid Convocation Center—nor in the beautifully furnished room that reeked of academia and storied tradition.

High in one of the turrets of the expansive connected buildings that formed Convocation Academy, the provost’s office was ringed with a semi-circle of windows giving an expansive view of the snow-covered campus. The provost herself sat at a grand desk at the center of it all her platinum hair arranged in an exquisite twist, her skin dewy from the attention of grooming imps, a spiderweb of lines fanning out from her wizard-black eyes. Her House Uriel psychic magic waved impersonally against Alise’s own wizard senses, an assessing multicolored field of well-crafted, exquisitely balanced magic of a high-level wizard. The provost raised a single brow as the imposing woman looked her up and down with keen insight.

Alise could just imagine what the provost saw, but she didn’t care about her appearance. She wasn’t at academy to look pretty. She was there to play obedient wizard, to graduate as quickly as possible—and possibly discover the root of a Convocation-wide conspiracy that went back generations. No big deal.

“Wizard Alise,” the provost finally said in a musing tone, apparently finished with her cataloguing of Alise’s many faults. “I’d rather believed, after our previous conversation, that you would not be in my office again so soon. Or ever again. In fact, I’d been fully convinced you were sincere about finishing your education—and in obeying the rules set forth for you here. I clearly recall fervent promises on your part to that effect.”

Alise bit back a sigh, and a pointed retort. “I apologize, Provost Uriel.”

The provost waited an expectant moment, then tipped her head slightly. “At least you don’t attempt to offer excuses. I would, however, be interested in the tale of how a planned field trip with Archivist Cillian Harahel to access the archives at House Harahel—an excursion, not incidentally, approved by me, personally, and with the understanding that strict limitations would be observed—turned into you haring off to House Phel, yet again, where you became embroiled in highly illegal and contentious activities.”

Put that way, it all sounded very bad, though the choice to rush to her family’s aid had been very clear at the time. They’d been under a literal siege, their lives at stake. “Archivist Harahel did go with me,” Alise offered weakly. “I was still under Convocation faculty supervision the entire time.”

“I’m aware of Archivist Harahel’s decision in this matter,” Provost Uriel replied drily, “and I will be speaking with him also.”

Alise jerked her chin up. Was Cillian’s job in jeopardy? And all because of her. “It wasn’t his fault. I insisted.”

“Oh?” The provost raised a brow. “I can’t say I think much of his ‘supervision’ as a faculty member if a minor student was able to sway him from the explicitly defined parameters of his assignment.”

“I’m not a minor,” Alise replied, trying to sound reasonable. “I’m eighteen now.” Never mind that everyone had forgotten her birthday in the cacophony of events. She would be horribly selfish to even wish for anyone to think to celebrate that, given all that had occurred.

“You, Wizard Alise, despite your recent birthday, elevated birth, and estimable high-house connections, are but a student here,” Provost Uriel said with stern emphasis. “That makes you a minor in the academy’s eyes. Whereas Archivist Harahel is a faculty member, albeit a junior one and a librarian rather than teaching staff, and is therefore expected to adhere to binding regulations. Taking a student on an excursion unauthorized by the academy or her family is a severe breach of professional standards.”

“We went to save my family!” Alise protested. “Lord Phel will—”

“Lord Phel does not direct Convocation Academy,” the provost interrupted with a severe chop of her hand. “I do. And, despite what some high houses believe, Convocation Academy is an independent entity, not a political one. We do not cave to the desires of the individual houses nor to the pulling of rank by the scions of those houses. Not Phel. Not Elal. Not Harahel.”

“I did not intend to pull rank,” Alise said as evenly as she could, attempting to stick to the primary accusation. “I certainly never have called on the influence of House Elal. I’ve renounced the house of my birth, as we’ve previously discussed, Provost.”

“Yes, about that…” The provost plucked up a missive from the many on her desk, this one on expensive stationery with the gold-embossed seal of House Elal. It soured Alise’s stomach just to see it. “Any idea why Lord Elal is writing to me to withdraw you from Convocation Academy due to a family emergency?”

Alise had a pretty good idea, yes, but not one she’d like to articulate. Even if you hated your father, it wasn’t good form to accuse him of vengeful and murderous impulses. “He can’t do that. House Elal already disowned me.”

“Not officially, he didn’t. According to Convocation records, you are still a scion of Elal, and your father has been heard saying that he’s considering you to be his heir.”

That was news to Alise. According to her younger brother, Nander, the disowning had been done a while ago. And Nander had been equally certain of being their father’s heir. He’d taunted Alise with the information, though Alise didn’t care in the least. She wasn’t fit to be a standard wizard, let alone the head of a high house, not with the terrible way she’d used her magic. She’d witnessed firsthand how power had corrupted her father and had no intention of following any further in his footsteps.

“House Phel pays my tuition, my room and board,” she pointed out. “Papa—Lord Elal, that is, doesn’t have the power to withdraw me,” Alise tried, feeling more than a little desperate.

“To some extent, that’s true,” the provost allowed, dropping the missive onto her desk again. “As my previous remarks on Convocation Academy not being subject to the whims of the heads of high houses, even one as powerful as Lord Elal imagines himself to be, still apply. There is, however, the more than slight problem, Wizard Alise, in that your status here as a student is in question—entirely due to your own actions—no matter who is paying the bill. Surely you understand the problem?”

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