The End of Magic - Chapter 5
Apr. 1st, 2019 06:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desastristaThe End of Magic is an original multichaptered fantasy work that I am currently publishing on both AO3 and Dreamwidth. You can find the master post of all chapters here or just click the "end of magic" tag. (AO3 link here.)
Berdu departed early the next morning. Most of Kadehir still slept, but Ozal and Nadide were there to see him off. Ozal did not think he was imagining the relief in his uncle's expression at the thought of returning home, but still he dawdled on their doorstep.
“My wife has so many fond memories of this house,” he sighed. “Almost two centuries old, but still so beautiful. Ozal, you must do everything in your power to ensure it stands for at least two more.”
The look he gave was too pointed for that to be merely a platitude. Ozal was not so cruel as to ask which prospect frightened his uncle more: his bachelordom or the accusations he had made only yesterday against the most powerful magician in the Empire. It was not like his uncle's answer would sway his mind on either topic. Instead, he just nodded.
“Thank you for everything you've done for my family,” he replied instead. A few more parting words, an embrace for both Ozal and Nadide, and then Berdu had set off for his home.
When their uncle was no longer visible against the horizon, Ozal turned to go back inside.
“Are you still planning on going to the Stand today?” He heard Nadide ask. When he turned to face her, he caught her staring at his cane before she noticed and lifted her gaze.
Ozal's shoulders stiffened. Of course he should have expected the question; Kadim had asked the same thing this morning. He repeated now what he had said then. “I am a man of my word, and I have already delayed once.”
One day had the habit of becoming many more.
Before Nadide could raise an objection -- and she looked ready to -- he added, “It is too common a task for him, but I will have Kadim fetch a carriage.”
His sister's mouth contorted into a bitter smile. “If doing that bothers you, you will surely be horrified to know that I will the one to cook Ahmad bajedi his celebratory first lunch as a student of the Stand.”
If Berdu had been aiming for Ozal's conscience, Nadide's words found their target. Ozal grimaced.
“I will resume my post soon enough. Collect a salary again. And then our lives can continue as they were.”
Even as he spoke, his grip tightened on the cane. Already his legs were beginning to complain about how long he had been standing. Nadide frowned.
“If the Gods will it,” she said, but doubt was heavy in her voice.
The sun had risen by the time that the foreign magician came downstairs. Ozal had swallowed his pride and sent Kadim out while his sister had laid out a platter of bread, fruit, cheese and yogurt. The two of them had began to eat when Ahmad and his Mucevhed walked in to join them.
“Today we go to the Stand, yes?” Ahmad asked with obvious enthusiasm. Evidently Ozal was not alone in his determination to delay no further this introduction. As he looked over the man, however, Ozal found one detail giving him pause.
“I understand when traveling, a simple wardrobe might be best. And you have travelled rather far to visit the Stand --”
With his rough-spun robe, Ahmad resembled the men the Stand hired to mend their walls, not study inside them. It shouldn't matter, but first impressions could be powerful things.
“If, perhaps, you need a change of clothes --”
Ahmad waved off his objection even as he helped himself to an apple. “I like my clothes.”
“They are not what the Stand might expect.”
Ahmad only shrugged at that observation. “I am not what the Stand might expect. No clothes will change that.”
There was some truth in that. Still, casting about for some support, Ozal turned to his sister. “Nadide, what do you think?”
She had evidently not been expecting to be asked her opinion. “You would know the Stand and its conventions better than me, brother,” she demurred. Ozal opened his mouth to agree, but then Nadide continued, “Still, though, I would say that if it is true what they say and magic is dying, what the Stand expects may not be what it needs.”
Ozal abruptly closed his mouth. Ahmad gave Nadide a small tilt of his head in acknowledgement. The words were not what Ozal had expected to hear. But, he thought, as he mulled them over, that didn't make them necessarily wrong.
A knock at the door forced him back to the present. “That must be Kadim,” he said.
The groomsman that Kadim had found was so young he lacked a beard, but on such short notice this child would have to suffice.
“We should be on our way,” Ozal announced.
“Can you leave Kadim for the day?” Nadide called back. “I will need to go to market today, and it would be better for him to go than me.”
Ozal nodded, although the thought made him taste bile in his throat. He was not used to swallowing his pride so many times in a day. Was this really how his family had lived while he had been cursed?
“If the mistress of the house requires additional help, I can also stay,” the other magician's Mucevhed offered quietly. It was a polite offer -- and no doubt one that Nadide would much appreciate -- but still unusual not to have originated from the magician himself. Ozal turned to Ahmad for confirmation.
The man was staring at own his Mucevhed in confusion.
“I thought you wanted to come,” he finally said. It seemed a callous thing to say: now the Mucevhed was in the unfortunate position of drawing stares from everyone in the room.
“I do,” Mahir replied as the beginning of a blush blossomed over his cheeks. “But if I am there, it might be considered improper. A magician is only supposed to bond with his Mucevhed after the exam.”
He cast a furtive glance at Ozal, perhaps seeking his recommendation. But Ozal found himself suddenly distracted by a different problem.
“Of course, these days most of the men I know are with full magicians, so I never thought to wonder about the collar -- who was it that performed the bonding ceremony for you and your Mucevhed, Ahmad?”
Ozal remembered his own bonding ceremony fondly, when he met Kadim and first truly became a student of the Stand. He had been fourteen, Kadim thirteen and his first time being presented.
“Who?” Ahmad asked, his brows knit together. “Me, of course.”
“But that is advanced magic --” Ozal stuttered. He barely knew the details of how the spell worked, only its effect: to bind a Mucevhed to his magician and allow his magic to be called upon at will. “There are only a handful of men at the Stand who can perform such a thing, and they have had trouble finding suitable replacements.”
If Ozal had been among his peers, no doubt his confusion would have been echoed by every voice in the room. But instead no one appeared surprised by what he had said. “A few magicians who can do the spell is a greater number than the ones who knew how to cure you,” Nadide shrugged.
Ozal straightened his back. Twenty five years old and his sister still had the gift of making him feel like a scolded child. “Well then,” he said. “If this is the kind of magic Ahmad can do untrained, imagine the possibilities with a real magical education --”
“I want you to see me take the test.” Ahmad was not talking to Ozal; he was not even looking at him. Instead, he was still staring at his Mucevhed, and his words had a sincerity that would have perhaps been better kept private. The blush on his Mucevhed's face deepened.
“We will find a way for him to watch where he'll be too far away for you to draw on his magic,” Ozal suggested hurriedly, before Ahmad could embarrass himself further. “The judges need never know he was there.”
Perhaps the offer was unclear, because the Mucevhed spoke for a minute in Wakamiri and it was only then that Ahmad nodded.
“Then we really should get going,” Ozal finished. He took a minute to savor the prospect of what was to come. If Savaner kishah had been the talk of the Stand for months after he took the exam, Ahmad was sure to leave them speechless.
Ozal had never taken a carriage to the Stand before. Why should he, when it was not far and -- particularly when the Emperor had decreed a fair day -- the route was pleasant? In contrast, the carriage jostled its occupants and was in the habit of lurching at odd intervals. It would have been better to walk. It would have been better if he could have walked. Ozal's knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his cane.
His only solace was that the journey went quickly, and they passed through the outer gate of the Stand without incident. When the carriage finally stopped inside the Outer Courtyard, Ozal stepped outside and relished being in the open air for just a minute.
He was back. The Stand was his second home, and someone had tried to take all of it from him. But he was still here, and he was going to see justice done.
All things in time, though. First, he hailed the first errand boy he could find. “Go fetch the Master of Magical Education, Hasmet bajedi, and tell him that Ozal has come to introduce a would-be student.” The boy nodded and made to leave, but Ozal stopped him. “And when you are done, go to the eastern wing of the Great Library. A physician by the name of Ayberk has told me to find him there.”
That accomplished, he turned back to the carriage and saw Ahmad standing and looking upwards with wide eyes. “What is it you see?” Ozal asked good-naturedly, already knowing the answer.
“This building,” the other magician muttered, “I never saw anything like it.”
There were so many buildings inside the Stand that, wherever you looked, there was always something beautiful and ornate to catch the eye. But only one really commanded attention: the Mountain Temple. The first and oldest building in the Stand, its walls were impossibly smooth. There was no sign of mortar or nails to betray its construction; except for the spaces carved out for the windows, it looked as solid and shorn as the cliffs facing the ocean.
“The first settlers of Kadehir carved this building from the very mountains themselves,” Ozal explained.
“So this is the magic of the Stand,” Ahmad whispered in awe.
He sounded so impressed that Ozal was reluctant to correct him. But he was an honest man. “It has probably been generations since anyone in Kadehir was able to do something quite on this scale.” He could not quite keep the longing out of his voice. “No one is quite sure why there has been this decline, but the question is never far from any magician's mind.”
Ahmad looked curious and Ozal could have spent the day explaining all the different theories, but at that moment Mahir had started to bow and take his leave.
“Where can he watch?” Ahmad turn to ask Ozal.
Ozal belatedly remembered his promise from the morning. “The nursery would likely be the best spot,” he said. “No one will question his presence there. And any of the northern facing windows on the upper floors should offer a glimpse of at least the later trials. Oh, and the floors are lined with sikir, so we can be sure that you will ensure you face no accusations of an unfair advantage in the trials.”
“Sikir?” Ahmad asked.
“It is a material that blocks magic. Rarely found outside Kadehir, or maybe just rarely appreciated. There was a concern that too much early exposure to magicians was weakening the magic of the Mucevheden, so in the last few years the floors of the nursery have been lined with sikir.”
Ahmad’s brows furrowed. “That seems -- a strange thing to have in a school for magic,” he said. Ozal merely shrugged. It had been a somewhat controversial decision at the time, but these days the Stand was willing to entertain many solutions that might have once seemed unthinkable.
Mahir had said his thanks and was bowing a respectable exit. Ahmad turned and gave him a smile, “Please, send me luck.”
Ozal privately thought it was too earnest a tone to take in public with one’s Mucevhed, and from the faint red dusting the Mucevhed's cheeks he clearly knew it too.
“Yes, absolutely, I will,” he responded, with more warmth than Ozal expected.
Mahir had only been gone for a minute or two before Hasmet arrived. He was a middle-aged man, whose beard had only just started to become flecked with white. His eyes were serious and gray and they moved between Ahmad and Ozal without betraying any emotion.
"Ozal, I am relieved to see that you have recovered," he finally said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I had heard only the worst. And with the tragedy of losing our brother Eryadin --”
“The Stand has lost a great man,” Ozal nodded deeply. “I do not know why the Mother in her mercy spared me. But today I bring the magician who cured me. He has never been introduced to the Stand before."
For the first time, Hasmet appeared visibly surprised as he turned to Ahmad. "You were the one to cure our brother Ozal?"
Ahmad gave a low bow. “Yes, bajedi."
Surprise was turning into a look of cold calculation. "Where are you from, young man?"
“I belong to the Dubbhazhel tribe. My father is Musayeib and his father was Bayhas --”
Hasmet silenced him with a wave of his hand. “There are hundreds of tribes in the Empire, but only a dozen or so are well-known in the capital. Usually those who govern the provinces, you know, or at least wish they did. The Dubbhaz -- the tribe you named I unfortunately do not recognize at all. Which province are you from?”
With more uncertainty, Ahmad answered, “I lived in Bak Liwahar for two years.”
"Oh." Recognition finally flashed across the man's features. "So you are from Wakamir."
"Yes," Ahmad said. "That is what people call it here.”
“That is its name,” Hasmet corrected gently. Ahmad shrugged. The province was very far from the capital; evidently so far that it had little knowledge of its own place in the Empire.
“Things must be very different here in Kadehir,” Ozal suggested.
Ahmad made a noise of agreement. "I told Mahir on our first day here that I never saw so much water all at once. Even when you cannot see the ocean, you smell it. And there is so much magic here. It smells a little like the ocean.”
“Well, I've never heard anyone talk about smelling magic before,” Hasmet replied with the good-natured leniency of a teacher confronting a rowdy but promising student. “But if you are looking to learn magic, there is nowhere else in the world that can teach you what we teach here.”
Ozal was about to mention their hopes for Ahmad's magical education, but the words died on his lips when he happened to catch sight of the errand boy from before over Hasmet's shoulders. He was pointing a young man in their direction. That was Ayberk, it had to be.
Ozal's silence left room for Ahmad to answer instead. “But first, you give me test.”
Ozal winced. Ahmad was clearly direct when it would have been better to be indirect. But luckily the Master of Magical Education only laughed. “Young man, if you are in such a hurry, by all means, we can start soon. Yes, the Stand requires a test of magical abilities before it will admit a student. There will be three trials before the Stand's judges, who at the end will make a recommendation for admittance. If you are admitted, you can start your magical education at the Stand as soon as tomorrow. All we need to start is my two fellow judges. I'll have them sent for right away.”
“There are three judges now?” Ozal asked in surprise, his attention pulled back to the present conversation. It had been many years since he had taken the exam, of course, but in his day there had been only two judges: one to speak on behalf of the Emperor and the other to speak on behalf of the Gods.
“These days, the military counts so many of our men in their ranks, it felt prudent to offer them a voice in the exam as well.”
It was a diplomatic answer, and Ozal privately wondered how many times the man had had to recite it. But another glance at Ayberk in the distance and Ozal knew he did not have time to inquire more about this decision. “After you have done that, I was wondering -- since this is Ahmad's first time here and since in your position you must know so much of the history of the Stand --”
Hasmet picked up the suggestion at once. Turning to Ahmad, he said, “I am happy to give you a small tour while we wait.”
Now that he was sure the Master had his attention elsewhere, Ozal politely took his leave and walked to talk to Ayberk. He had questions that were best kept to one man's ears.
The physician was young, very young for the position of authority he had been given. And he gave every appearance of that authority still being foreign to him; he bowed to Ozal twice as he formally introduced himself. “I am so happy to see you restored to health, bajedi. So happy.”
The conversation with Hasmet had tried the limits of Ozal's recovery, and he had hastily sat down under a nearby date tree and tried to pretend it was a choice. He was half-tempted to correct the man when he spoke of recovery, but thought better of it.
“My sister tells me you treated me during my illness,” Ozal began. The other man nodded.
“She is a very brave woman --,” he started, but Ozal cut him off. His sister would appreciate the truth more than flattery.
“I have also discussed the matter with Doruk. He said you told him I was poisoned.”
Another nod. It stopped when Ozal continued, “But my sister says you were unsure it was poison when you actually examined me.”
The physician kept his expression impassive, but Ozal could see how the blood drained from his face. “Yes, of course. Well, you see, my initial inquiry -- and then there were, of course, the political implications. It would be a terrible thing to burden a young woman with that knowledge.”
“The political implications,” Ozal repeated. The words sounded like a curse in his mouth. “Of course.”
“You are so well acquainted with the Vaspahanians, and of course the events that led up your affliction were known only to you --” There was almost a pleading tone in Ayberk's voice now. “I had hoped, as I am sure everyone had hoped -- that perhaps in your recovery you would be able to identify who did such a horrible thing.”
“I do not believe I was poisoned,” Ozal said shortly. The man gave a despondent sigh and fell quiet. Ozal glanced at his side, and saw another figure walking towards them. He looked older, and wore the cloak of a priest. The second judge, no doubt. Ozal did not have much time. Perhaps he needed to change his approach. “I understand why you thought it might be poison, though,” he continued, his tone now much more generous.
“I do not know what else it could be. Your case was the strangest I have ever come across. Some people blamed the Shadow or thought it might be some kind of evil, lesser magic. But it did not respond to even our strongest healing spells. And then one day, I was discussing the case with the Imperial Magician himself --”
This was more promising. “He took an interest in my case?” Ozal asked lightly.
“I think you'd be hard pressed to find a magician in the all the Empire who didn't,” the physician replied sheepishly. “I was discussing the matter with him, and he reminded me of some of the stranger affairs in the Summer War. There were poisons used in battle that our physicians had never seen before --”
This time Ozal could not contain the coldness in his voice.
“So, it really was Tolga bajedi who said I had been poisoned by the Vaspahanians.”
The other man blanched. “Ozal bajedi,” he managed to stutter out. “This is the Imperial Magician you are talking about --”
“Of course, my sincerest apologies,” Ozal forced the words out of his mouth. “He was still just Tolga bajedi when I was stricken.” He made a vague motion with his cane. “I am still recovering. Certain things are returning slower than others.”
His words tailed off. There was a certain truth to those last words: certain things were really returning to him slower than others. Tolga had not been the Imperial Magician before he had been cursed, yes; but more than that, he had also not been considered a likely choice. While the Emperor nominally chose the man, the members of the Stand voted in secret as to who they would nominate. The ballots were destroyed afterwards, and all forbidden from sowing dissent about the decision afterwards. The man that he and Eryadin favored had been seen as a likely candidate, a safe choice who favored negotiations with the Vaspahanians and some of the more errant provincial leaders. And yet somehow that man had lost and Tolga bajedi had won.
Ayberk was still speaking in general about his recovery. “There was so much you would have missed,” he concluded.
“Yes, of course,” Ozal snapped. “Who was it who collected the ballots for the Stand's recommendation?”
The other man blinked at him. “For the Imperial Magician? Demir, I believe. But that was months ago, bajedi. Why do you ask?”
“As you said, I have much to catch up on.” Ozal looked again at the courtyard. The first man had joined with the Master and Ahmad, and now all three were discussing one of the western towers. But off in the distance, Ozal spotted a second man, walking with purpose. He was a kishah: a saber hung by his side. The last judge. Ozal cursed silently.
“It appears that I must take my leave, as I have other business to attend to,” Ozal forced what he hoped was an apologetic smile. “Thank you for everything you've done for me.” A pause in which he remembered himself, and added, “And my family.”
The three judges assembled, the Master of Magical Education announced that the first trial would take place inside the Mountain Temple. As they walked inside and down the first hallway, he appeared to take the opportunity to continue his earlier tour.
“This temple is one of the most important buildings in all of Kadehir, and to magicians probably one of the most important in the Empire itself. It's also the oldest building in Kadehir, having been carved about two hundred years ago.”
He might have meant the words to impress Ahmad, but the younger man just looked surprised. “Such a young city. In Bak Liwahar, families go back a thousand years.”
Ozal noted the displeased looks that passed between the other two judges, the kishah and the priest. He hoped Ahmad did too, but if he did, he gave no indication. Hasmet grimaced briefly and then tried to twitch his features into something more pleasant.
“I suppose the Empire is new compared to some of her territory, but she started life as a child of the Yuserian Empire. Has Ozal told you that story?”
Ahmad shook his head. “I know it from --” he started to explain, but the other man had already started his next lesson.
“It all started with a few brave sailors who crossed the ocean in search of something they couldn't quite explain. At that point, Kadehir was nothing, just a mountain range cutting off the rest of the continent from the shore. But these men saw potential in her. They would write later how the shores were beacons, luring them with the pull of all the magic that exists in the rocks and soil of Kadehir. They didn't know it was magic at the time, but once they discovered what they could do with it, they carved a new land for themselves. They opened the port and leveled the mountains. And then they formed the Stand, to honor the Gods and train others in the art of magic.”
Ozal knew the story well, but he still liked hearing it. It seemed both fantastical and bittersweet -- the settlers had come so far on a dream, and now the land on which they landed seemed always at the throat of the land from which they had came.
Ahmad's feelings on the story seemed much simpler. He just nodded and muttered, half to himself, “Finally, something that makes sense.”
“That was the start of our Empire. The settlers intermarried with the local tribes. The first Emperor started to grow his army and expand further inland. For each city he conquered, he added to both his own Palace and the Stand.”
“But expanding stops at Bak Liwahar,” Ahmad said Hasmet eyed him warily. The foreign magician's expression was one of mild curiosity; perhaps he did not know the full weight of his words in Kadehir. What a pity all three judges did. “I know because that is where the caravans stop,” Ahmad clarified unnecessarily.
“Yes, the Empire expanded all the way to Wakamir. But for all our ambitions, the province has proven impassable.” Ozal added in his mind what the Master had left unsaid: the first magicians might have been able to bend the Earth itself to their whims, but the Stand had lost that ability generations ago.
In a lighter tone, Hasmet continued, “If you look above, the green gemstones set in that chandelier are from your province. The idea was that this temple would have a treasure from each province. I'm partial to the blue tiles, which use a dye only found in Moukhtieh.”
They had stopped before a pair of heavy iron doors. Ozal knew they led to the Inner Courtyard. He had been there so many times before, but still even seeing the entrance could make his heart feel lighter.
“Each of these treasures are precious, of course. But the temple also holds the treasure of Kadehir itself, and those are perhaps the most precious of all. They are just behind these doors, and are the site of your first trial.”
The walls surrounding them were tall, and little light from outside made its way in. Instead, most of the light grew from the center of the courtyard.
The seven god-trees grew in a circle in the heart of the Stand. Even after all these years, the sight of them still stole Ozal's breath. They were beautiful, growing as tall as three men standing atop each other's shoulders with bark that was completely smooth and unblemished. Trunk, branch and leaf all shared the same coloring: an unnatural milky white whose faint glow threw shadows against the tiled floors. It was the color of magic, so concentrated that it became visible to the naked eye.
“The first trial takes place in this holy site,” the first judge, the priest, stepped forward to explain. “As you can see, the Seven Gods have marked these trees.” He walked towards the grove, and when he stood below the canopy of the god-trees he walked past each and named them. Closest to them stood the Maiden, with her delicate branches; then the stately Lord with his wide trunk and by his side the bowing Servant; the Sage, who bent like the back of an old man; the finally, the Mother flush with leaves and flowers and the Crone with her branches almost bare. Looming over all them was the tallest, the only one on whom nothing grew: the Shadow.
“Legend has it that the original settlers planted seven trees, and the Gods chose to rest in them and make them their own,” the priest continued. That was the orthodoxy. Some people -- either the more devout or the less educated, depending on who you asked -- even believed the gods themselves lived in these seven trees. Ozal had never subscribed to so literal a belief, but like most faithful Kadehirden he believed the shape and forms of the trees was evidence of both the holy existence of the Seven and the divine status of the city.
The priest walked back in front of the Sage. “All magic comes from the blessing of the Gods. So for your step towards becoming a full magician, you must ask for a blessing.”
He reached out his hand, and a lone branch of the god-tree moved downwards until it grazed the tips of his fingers. Priests almost always asked the blessings of the Sage or the Crone. Most magicians would ask the Lord, although Ozal had heard asking the blessings of the Maiden was popular with soldiers.
“Now, young man. It is your turn. Choose wisely which God you would ask.”
Ahmad said nothing but walked around the ring of the trees. He looked each one up and down, evaluating carefully. It was a momentous choice, and Ozal was glad he seemed to be taking the task seriously.
After a minute, he turned back to the judges. “You arrange the Gods differently in Kadehir.”
In the quiet of the Sanctum, you could hear how sharply the judges drew in their breaths.
“That we arrange?” the soldier muttered. “The Gods themselves chose their homes.”
“I am sure it is only a language barrier,” Ozal said quickly. Ahmad could be as gifted as he liked, but the Stand would never accept a magician who insulted the Gods. Turning towards Ahmad, and speaking slowly so that there was no risk of being misunderstood, he asked, “What do you mean?”
“We Dubbhazhel worship the Sun first,” here he pointed to the Lord. “And his family. Next to him, his wife.” The Mother. “Then his daughter.” The Maiden. “Then his son.” The Servant. “And then his parents” The Sage and Crone. “Then there is the Moon, who gardens the stars and is very lonely because he has no family of his own.” He pointed to the Shadow. After a pause, he added, quietly, “My mother liked him most.”
A stunned silence greeted his explanation.
“The Empire has grown so large that perhaps, on its borders, a proper theological understanding might be lacking,” Ozal offered up as explanation, ever the diplomat.
Perhaps thinking he had not yet made the situation bad enough, Ahmad offered, “Maybe if you arranged the trees differently, their magic become stronger.”
That was enough to break the silence that had fallen upon the judges. “Of what madness does he speak?” Hasmet turned to Ozal, almost snarling.
“What do you mean -- their magic would be stronger?” Ozal felt the hairs on his arm stand up. The truth was the god-trees had been shrinking for years now. But Ozal had said nothing about this, not to Ahmad, not even to his own sister. It was the kind of discussion that was not supposed to reach beyond the walls of the Stand. It was fodder for apocalyptic dreamers: magic was ending, and the gods were abandoning Kadehir.
“The magic from the trees is...weak,” Ahmad explained. “Like drawing water from a well where someone threw stones. Only one tree has all its magic. That is why it is so tall.”
He pointed to the Shadow.
A cold shiver passed through Ozal. The Shadow had always been the tallest of the trees, but had it actually grown taller over the years as its brethren declined?
“Enough of this,” the Master of Magical Education said at last. “Strange desert superstitions have no place here. Either ask a favor of the Gods, or consider this trial failed.” He turned to Ozal and said, not entirely under his breath, “I thought you said you had brought a healer, not a heathen.”
Ozal drew in a sharp breath, but if Ahmad heard he gave no indication. Instead, he merely shrugged. “The healthiest, then.” He reached out a hand and a branch from the Shadow unfurled to reach it.
Usually the passing of the first trial was met with applause; only a stunned silence greeted Ahmad now.
“On to the second trial, then,” the Master said weakly.
Berdu departed early the next morning. Most of Kadehir still slept, but Ozal and Nadide were there to see him off. Ozal did not think he was imagining the relief in his uncle's expression at the thought of returning home, but still he dawdled on their doorstep.
“My wife has so many fond memories of this house,” he sighed. “Almost two centuries old, but still so beautiful. Ozal, you must do everything in your power to ensure it stands for at least two more.”
The look he gave was too pointed for that to be merely a platitude. Ozal was not so cruel as to ask which prospect frightened his uncle more: his bachelordom or the accusations he had made only yesterday against the most powerful magician in the Empire. It was not like his uncle's answer would sway his mind on either topic. Instead, he just nodded.
“Thank you for everything you've done for my family,” he replied instead. A few more parting words, an embrace for both Ozal and Nadide, and then Berdu had set off for his home.
When their uncle was no longer visible against the horizon, Ozal turned to go back inside.
“Are you still planning on going to the Stand today?” He heard Nadide ask. When he turned to face her, he caught her staring at his cane before she noticed and lifted her gaze.
Ozal's shoulders stiffened. Of course he should have expected the question; Kadim had asked the same thing this morning. He repeated now what he had said then. “I am a man of my word, and I have already delayed once.”
One day had the habit of becoming many more.
Before Nadide could raise an objection -- and she looked ready to -- he added, “It is too common a task for him, but I will have Kadim fetch a carriage.”
His sister's mouth contorted into a bitter smile. “If doing that bothers you, you will surely be horrified to know that I will the one to cook Ahmad bajedi his celebratory first lunch as a student of the Stand.”
If Berdu had been aiming for Ozal's conscience, Nadide's words found their target. Ozal grimaced.
“I will resume my post soon enough. Collect a salary again. And then our lives can continue as they were.”
Even as he spoke, his grip tightened on the cane. Already his legs were beginning to complain about how long he had been standing. Nadide frowned.
“If the Gods will it,” she said, but doubt was heavy in her voice.
The sun had risen by the time that the foreign magician came downstairs. Ozal had swallowed his pride and sent Kadim out while his sister had laid out a platter of bread, fruit, cheese and yogurt. The two of them had began to eat when Ahmad and his Mucevhed walked in to join them.
“Today we go to the Stand, yes?” Ahmad asked with obvious enthusiasm. Evidently Ozal was not alone in his determination to delay no further this introduction. As he looked over the man, however, Ozal found one detail giving him pause.
“I understand when traveling, a simple wardrobe might be best. And you have travelled rather far to visit the Stand --”
With his rough-spun robe, Ahmad resembled the men the Stand hired to mend their walls, not study inside them. It shouldn't matter, but first impressions could be powerful things.
“If, perhaps, you need a change of clothes --”
Ahmad waved off his objection even as he helped himself to an apple. “I like my clothes.”
“They are not what the Stand might expect.”
Ahmad only shrugged at that observation. “I am not what the Stand might expect. No clothes will change that.”
There was some truth in that. Still, casting about for some support, Ozal turned to his sister. “Nadide, what do you think?”
She had evidently not been expecting to be asked her opinion. “You would know the Stand and its conventions better than me, brother,” she demurred. Ozal opened his mouth to agree, but then Nadide continued, “Still, though, I would say that if it is true what they say and magic is dying, what the Stand expects may not be what it needs.”
Ozal abruptly closed his mouth. Ahmad gave Nadide a small tilt of his head in acknowledgement. The words were not what Ozal had expected to hear. But, he thought, as he mulled them over, that didn't make them necessarily wrong.
A knock at the door forced him back to the present. “That must be Kadim,” he said.
The groomsman that Kadim had found was so young he lacked a beard, but on such short notice this child would have to suffice.
“We should be on our way,” Ozal announced.
“Can you leave Kadim for the day?” Nadide called back. “I will need to go to market today, and it would be better for him to go than me.”
Ozal nodded, although the thought made him taste bile in his throat. He was not used to swallowing his pride so many times in a day. Was this really how his family had lived while he had been cursed?
“If the mistress of the house requires additional help, I can also stay,” the other magician's Mucevhed offered quietly. It was a polite offer -- and no doubt one that Nadide would much appreciate -- but still unusual not to have originated from the magician himself. Ozal turned to Ahmad for confirmation.
The man was staring at own his Mucevhed in confusion.
“I thought you wanted to come,” he finally said. It seemed a callous thing to say: now the Mucevhed was in the unfortunate position of drawing stares from everyone in the room.
“I do,” Mahir replied as the beginning of a blush blossomed over his cheeks. “But if I am there, it might be considered improper. A magician is only supposed to bond with his Mucevhed after the exam.”
He cast a furtive glance at Ozal, perhaps seeking his recommendation. But Ozal found himself suddenly distracted by a different problem.
“Of course, these days most of the men I know are with full magicians, so I never thought to wonder about the collar -- who was it that performed the bonding ceremony for you and your Mucevhed, Ahmad?”
Ozal remembered his own bonding ceremony fondly, when he met Kadim and first truly became a student of the Stand. He had been fourteen, Kadim thirteen and his first time being presented.
“Who?” Ahmad asked, his brows knit together. “Me, of course.”
“But that is advanced magic --” Ozal stuttered. He barely knew the details of how the spell worked, only its effect: to bind a Mucevhed to his magician and allow his magic to be called upon at will. “There are only a handful of men at the Stand who can perform such a thing, and they have had trouble finding suitable replacements.”
If Ozal had been among his peers, no doubt his confusion would have been echoed by every voice in the room. But instead no one appeared surprised by what he had said. “A few magicians who can do the spell is a greater number than the ones who knew how to cure you,” Nadide shrugged.
Ozal straightened his back. Twenty five years old and his sister still had the gift of making him feel like a scolded child. “Well then,” he said. “If this is the kind of magic Ahmad can do untrained, imagine the possibilities with a real magical education --”
“I want you to see me take the test.” Ahmad was not talking to Ozal; he was not even looking at him. Instead, he was still staring at his Mucevhed, and his words had a sincerity that would have perhaps been better kept private. The blush on his Mucevhed's face deepened.
“We will find a way for him to watch where he'll be too far away for you to draw on his magic,” Ozal suggested hurriedly, before Ahmad could embarrass himself further. “The judges need never know he was there.”
Perhaps the offer was unclear, because the Mucevhed spoke for a minute in Wakamiri and it was only then that Ahmad nodded.
“Then we really should get going,” Ozal finished. He took a minute to savor the prospect of what was to come. If Savaner kishah had been the talk of the Stand for months after he took the exam, Ahmad was sure to leave them speechless.
Ozal had never taken a carriage to the Stand before. Why should he, when it was not far and -- particularly when the Emperor had decreed a fair day -- the route was pleasant? In contrast, the carriage jostled its occupants and was in the habit of lurching at odd intervals. It would have been better to walk. It would have been better if he could have walked. Ozal's knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his cane.
His only solace was that the journey went quickly, and they passed through the outer gate of the Stand without incident. When the carriage finally stopped inside the Outer Courtyard, Ozal stepped outside and relished being in the open air for just a minute.
He was back. The Stand was his second home, and someone had tried to take all of it from him. But he was still here, and he was going to see justice done.
All things in time, though. First, he hailed the first errand boy he could find. “Go fetch the Master of Magical Education, Hasmet bajedi, and tell him that Ozal has come to introduce a would-be student.” The boy nodded and made to leave, but Ozal stopped him. “And when you are done, go to the eastern wing of the Great Library. A physician by the name of Ayberk has told me to find him there.”
That accomplished, he turned back to the carriage and saw Ahmad standing and looking upwards with wide eyes. “What is it you see?” Ozal asked good-naturedly, already knowing the answer.
“This building,” the other magician muttered, “I never saw anything like it.”
There were so many buildings inside the Stand that, wherever you looked, there was always something beautiful and ornate to catch the eye. But only one really commanded attention: the Mountain Temple. The first and oldest building in the Stand, its walls were impossibly smooth. There was no sign of mortar or nails to betray its construction; except for the spaces carved out for the windows, it looked as solid and shorn as the cliffs facing the ocean.
“The first settlers of Kadehir carved this building from the very mountains themselves,” Ozal explained.
“So this is the magic of the Stand,” Ahmad whispered in awe.
He sounded so impressed that Ozal was reluctant to correct him. But he was an honest man. “It has probably been generations since anyone in Kadehir was able to do something quite on this scale.” He could not quite keep the longing out of his voice. “No one is quite sure why there has been this decline, but the question is never far from any magician's mind.”
Ahmad looked curious and Ozal could have spent the day explaining all the different theories, but at that moment Mahir had started to bow and take his leave.
“Where can he watch?” Ahmad turn to ask Ozal.
Ozal belatedly remembered his promise from the morning. “The nursery would likely be the best spot,” he said. “No one will question his presence there. And any of the northern facing windows on the upper floors should offer a glimpse of at least the later trials. Oh, and the floors are lined with sikir, so we can be sure that you will ensure you face no accusations of an unfair advantage in the trials.”
“Sikir?” Ahmad asked.
“It is a material that blocks magic. Rarely found outside Kadehir, or maybe just rarely appreciated. There was a concern that too much early exposure to magicians was weakening the magic of the Mucevheden, so in the last few years the floors of the nursery have been lined with sikir.”
Ahmad’s brows furrowed. “That seems -- a strange thing to have in a school for magic,” he said. Ozal merely shrugged. It had been a somewhat controversial decision at the time, but these days the Stand was willing to entertain many solutions that might have once seemed unthinkable.
Mahir had said his thanks and was bowing a respectable exit. Ahmad turned and gave him a smile, “Please, send me luck.”
Ozal privately thought it was too earnest a tone to take in public with one’s Mucevhed, and from the faint red dusting the Mucevhed's cheeks he clearly knew it too.
“Yes, absolutely, I will,” he responded, with more warmth than Ozal expected.
Mahir had only been gone for a minute or two before Hasmet arrived. He was a middle-aged man, whose beard had only just started to become flecked with white. His eyes were serious and gray and they moved between Ahmad and Ozal without betraying any emotion.
"Ozal, I am relieved to see that you have recovered," he finally said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I had heard only the worst. And with the tragedy of losing our brother Eryadin --”
“The Stand has lost a great man,” Ozal nodded deeply. “I do not know why the Mother in her mercy spared me. But today I bring the magician who cured me. He has never been introduced to the Stand before."
For the first time, Hasmet appeared visibly surprised as he turned to Ahmad. "You were the one to cure our brother Ozal?"
Ahmad gave a low bow. “Yes, bajedi."
Surprise was turning into a look of cold calculation. "Where are you from, young man?"
“I belong to the Dubbhazhel tribe. My father is Musayeib and his father was Bayhas --”
Hasmet silenced him with a wave of his hand. “There are hundreds of tribes in the Empire, but only a dozen or so are well-known in the capital. Usually those who govern the provinces, you know, or at least wish they did. The Dubbhaz -- the tribe you named I unfortunately do not recognize at all. Which province are you from?”
With more uncertainty, Ahmad answered, “I lived in Bak Liwahar for two years.”
"Oh." Recognition finally flashed across the man's features. "So you are from Wakamir."
"Yes," Ahmad said. "That is what people call it here.”
“That is its name,” Hasmet corrected gently. Ahmad shrugged. The province was very far from the capital; evidently so far that it had little knowledge of its own place in the Empire.
“Things must be very different here in Kadehir,” Ozal suggested.
Ahmad made a noise of agreement. "I told Mahir on our first day here that I never saw so much water all at once. Even when you cannot see the ocean, you smell it. And there is so much magic here. It smells a little like the ocean.”
“Well, I've never heard anyone talk about smelling magic before,” Hasmet replied with the good-natured leniency of a teacher confronting a rowdy but promising student. “But if you are looking to learn magic, there is nowhere else in the world that can teach you what we teach here.”
Ozal was about to mention their hopes for Ahmad's magical education, but the words died on his lips when he happened to catch sight of the errand boy from before over Hasmet's shoulders. He was pointing a young man in their direction. That was Ayberk, it had to be.
Ozal's silence left room for Ahmad to answer instead. “But first, you give me test.”
Ozal winced. Ahmad was clearly direct when it would have been better to be indirect. But luckily the Master of Magical Education only laughed. “Young man, if you are in such a hurry, by all means, we can start soon. Yes, the Stand requires a test of magical abilities before it will admit a student. There will be three trials before the Stand's judges, who at the end will make a recommendation for admittance. If you are admitted, you can start your magical education at the Stand as soon as tomorrow. All we need to start is my two fellow judges. I'll have them sent for right away.”
“There are three judges now?” Ozal asked in surprise, his attention pulled back to the present conversation. It had been many years since he had taken the exam, of course, but in his day there had been only two judges: one to speak on behalf of the Emperor and the other to speak on behalf of the Gods.
“These days, the military counts so many of our men in their ranks, it felt prudent to offer them a voice in the exam as well.”
It was a diplomatic answer, and Ozal privately wondered how many times the man had had to recite it. But another glance at Ayberk in the distance and Ozal knew he did not have time to inquire more about this decision. “After you have done that, I was wondering -- since this is Ahmad's first time here and since in your position you must know so much of the history of the Stand --”
Hasmet picked up the suggestion at once. Turning to Ahmad, he said, “I am happy to give you a small tour while we wait.”
Now that he was sure the Master had his attention elsewhere, Ozal politely took his leave and walked to talk to Ayberk. He had questions that were best kept to one man's ears.
The physician was young, very young for the position of authority he had been given. And he gave every appearance of that authority still being foreign to him; he bowed to Ozal twice as he formally introduced himself. “I am so happy to see you restored to health, bajedi. So happy.”
The conversation with Hasmet had tried the limits of Ozal's recovery, and he had hastily sat down under a nearby date tree and tried to pretend it was a choice. He was half-tempted to correct the man when he spoke of recovery, but thought better of it.
“My sister tells me you treated me during my illness,” Ozal began. The other man nodded.
“She is a very brave woman --,” he started, but Ozal cut him off. His sister would appreciate the truth more than flattery.
“I have also discussed the matter with Doruk. He said you told him I was poisoned.”
Another nod. It stopped when Ozal continued, “But my sister says you were unsure it was poison when you actually examined me.”
The physician kept his expression impassive, but Ozal could see how the blood drained from his face. “Yes, of course. Well, you see, my initial inquiry -- and then there were, of course, the political implications. It would be a terrible thing to burden a young woman with that knowledge.”
“The political implications,” Ozal repeated. The words sounded like a curse in his mouth. “Of course.”
“You are so well acquainted with the Vaspahanians, and of course the events that led up your affliction were known only to you --” There was almost a pleading tone in Ayberk's voice now. “I had hoped, as I am sure everyone had hoped -- that perhaps in your recovery you would be able to identify who did such a horrible thing.”
“I do not believe I was poisoned,” Ozal said shortly. The man gave a despondent sigh and fell quiet. Ozal glanced at his side, and saw another figure walking towards them. He looked older, and wore the cloak of a priest. The second judge, no doubt. Ozal did not have much time. Perhaps he needed to change his approach. “I understand why you thought it might be poison, though,” he continued, his tone now much more generous.
“I do not know what else it could be. Your case was the strangest I have ever come across. Some people blamed the Shadow or thought it might be some kind of evil, lesser magic. But it did not respond to even our strongest healing spells. And then one day, I was discussing the case with the Imperial Magician himself --”
This was more promising. “He took an interest in my case?” Ozal asked lightly.
“I think you'd be hard pressed to find a magician in the all the Empire who didn't,” the physician replied sheepishly. “I was discussing the matter with him, and he reminded me of some of the stranger affairs in the Summer War. There were poisons used in battle that our physicians had never seen before --”
This time Ozal could not contain the coldness in his voice.
“So, it really was Tolga bajedi who said I had been poisoned by the Vaspahanians.”
The other man blanched. “Ozal bajedi,” he managed to stutter out. “This is the Imperial Magician you are talking about --”
“Of course, my sincerest apologies,” Ozal forced the words out of his mouth. “He was still just Tolga bajedi when I was stricken.” He made a vague motion with his cane. “I am still recovering. Certain things are returning slower than others.”
His words tailed off. There was a certain truth to those last words: certain things were really returning to him slower than others. Tolga had not been the Imperial Magician before he had been cursed, yes; but more than that, he had also not been considered a likely choice. While the Emperor nominally chose the man, the members of the Stand voted in secret as to who they would nominate. The ballots were destroyed afterwards, and all forbidden from sowing dissent about the decision afterwards. The man that he and Eryadin favored had been seen as a likely candidate, a safe choice who favored negotiations with the Vaspahanians and some of the more errant provincial leaders. And yet somehow that man had lost and Tolga bajedi had won.
Ayberk was still speaking in general about his recovery. “There was so much you would have missed,” he concluded.
“Yes, of course,” Ozal snapped. “Who was it who collected the ballots for the Stand's recommendation?”
The other man blinked at him. “For the Imperial Magician? Demir, I believe. But that was months ago, bajedi. Why do you ask?”
“As you said, I have much to catch up on.” Ozal looked again at the courtyard. The first man had joined with the Master and Ahmad, and now all three were discussing one of the western towers. But off in the distance, Ozal spotted a second man, walking with purpose. He was a kishah: a saber hung by his side. The last judge. Ozal cursed silently.
“It appears that I must take my leave, as I have other business to attend to,” Ozal forced what he hoped was an apologetic smile. “Thank you for everything you've done for me.” A pause in which he remembered himself, and added, “And my family.”
The three judges assembled, the Master of Magical Education announced that the first trial would take place inside the Mountain Temple. As they walked inside and down the first hallway, he appeared to take the opportunity to continue his earlier tour.
“This temple is one of the most important buildings in all of Kadehir, and to magicians probably one of the most important in the Empire itself. It's also the oldest building in Kadehir, having been carved about two hundred years ago.”
He might have meant the words to impress Ahmad, but the younger man just looked surprised. “Such a young city. In Bak Liwahar, families go back a thousand years.”
Ozal noted the displeased looks that passed between the other two judges, the kishah and the priest. He hoped Ahmad did too, but if he did, he gave no indication. Hasmet grimaced briefly and then tried to twitch his features into something more pleasant.
“I suppose the Empire is new compared to some of her territory, but she started life as a child of the Yuserian Empire. Has Ozal told you that story?”
Ahmad shook his head. “I know it from --” he started to explain, but the other man had already started his next lesson.
“It all started with a few brave sailors who crossed the ocean in search of something they couldn't quite explain. At that point, Kadehir was nothing, just a mountain range cutting off the rest of the continent from the shore. But these men saw potential in her. They would write later how the shores were beacons, luring them with the pull of all the magic that exists in the rocks and soil of Kadehir. They didn't know it was magic at the time, but once they discovered what they could do with it, they carved a new land for themselves. They opened the port and leveled the mountains. And then they formed the Stand, to honor the Gods and train others in the art of magic.”
Ozal knew the story well, but he still liked hearing it. It seemed both fantastical and bittersweet -- the settlers had come so far on a dream, and now the land on which they landed seemed always at the throat of the land from which they had came.
Ahmad's feelings on the story seemed much simpler. He just nodded and muttered, half to himself, “Finally, something that makes sense.”
“That was the start of our Empire. The settlers intermarried with the local tribes. The first Emperor started to grow his army and expand further inland. For each city he conquered, he added to both his own Palace and the Stand.”
“But expanding stops at Bak Liwahar,” Ahmad said Hasmet eyed him warily. The foreign magician's expression was one of mild curiosity; perhaps he did not know the full weight of his words in Kadehir. What a pity all three judges did. “I know because that is where the caravans stop,” Ahmad clarified unnecessarily.
“Yes, the Empire expanded all the way to Wakamir. But for all our ambitions, the province has proven impassable.” Ozal added in his mind what the Master had left unsaid: the first magicians might have been able to bend the Earth itself to their whims, but the Stand had lost that ability generations ago.
In a lighter tone, Hasmet continued, “If you look above, the green gemstones set in that chandelier are from your province. The idea was that this temple would have a treasure from each province. I'm partial to the blue tiles, which use a dye only found in Moukhtieh.”
They had stopped before a pair of heavy iron doors. Ozal knew they led to the Inner Courtyard. He had been there so many times before, but still even seeing the entrance could make his heart feel lighter.
“Each of these treasures are precious, of course. But the temple also holds the treasure of Kadehir itself, and those are perhaps the most precious of all. They are just behind these doors, and are the site of your first trial.”
The walls surrounding them were tall, and little light from outside made its way in. Instead, most of the light grew from the center of the courtyard.
The seven god-trees grew in a circle in the heart of the Stand. Even after all these years, the sight of them still stole Ozal's breath. They were beautiful, growing as tall as three men standing atop each other's shoulders with bark that was completely smooth and unblemished. Trunk, branch and leaf all shared the same coloring: an unnatural milky white whose faint glow threw shadows against the tiled floors. It was the color of magic, so concentrated that it became visible to the naked eye.
“The first trial takes place in this holy site,” the first judge, the priest, stepped forward to explain. “As you can see, the Seven Gods have marked these trees.” He walked towards the grove, and when he stood below the canopy of the god-trees he walked past each and named them. Closest to them stood the Maiden, with her delicate branches; then the stately Lord with his wide trunk and by his side the bowing Servant; the Sage, who bent like the back of an old man; the finally, the Mother flush with leaves and flowers and the Crone with her branches almost bare. Looming over all them was the tallest, the only one on whom nothing grew: the Shadow.
“Legend has it that the original settlers planted seven trees, and the Gods chose to rest in them and make them their own,” the priest continued. That was the orthodoxy. Some people -- either the more devout or the less educated, depending on who you asked -- even believed the gods themselves lived in these seven trees. Ozal had never subscribed to so literal a belief, but like most faithful Kadehirden he believed the shape and forms of the trees was evidence of both the holy existence of the Seven and the divine status of the city.
The priest walked back in front of the Sage. “All magic comes from the blessing of the Gods. So for your step towards becoming a full magician, you must ask for a blessing.”
He reached out his hand, and a lone branch of the god-tree moved downwards until it grazed the tips of his fingers. Priests almost always asked the blessings of the Sage or the Crone. Most magicians would ask the Lord, although Ozal had heard asking the blessings of the Maiden was popular with soldiers.
“Now, young man. It is your turn. Choose wisely which God you would ask.”
Ahmad said nothing but walked around the ring of the trees. He looked each one up and down, evaluating carefully. It was a momentous choice, and Ozal was glad he seemed to be taking the task seriously.
After a minute, he turned back to the judges. “You arrange the Gods differently in Kadehir.”
In the quiet of the Sanctum, you could hear how sharply the judges drew in their breaths.
“That we arrange?” the soldier muttered. “The Gods themselves chose their homes.”
“I am sure it is only a language barrier,” Ozal said quickly. Ahmad could be as gifted as he liked, but the Stand would never accept a magician who insulted the Gods. Turning towards Ahmad, and speaking slowly so that there was no risk of being misunderstood, he asked, “What do you mean?”
“We Dubbhazhel worship the Sun first,” here he pointed to the Lord. “And his family. Next to him, his wife.” The Mother. “Then his daughter.” The Maiden. “Then his son.” The Servant. “And then his parents” The Sage and Crone. “Then there is the Moon, who gardens the stars and is very lonely because he has no family of his own.” He pointed to the Shadow. After a pause, he added, quietly, “My mother liked him most.”
A stunned silence greeted his explanation.
“The Empire has grown so large that perhaps, on its borders, a proper theological understanding might be lacking,” Ozal offered up as explanation, ever the diplomat.
Perhaps thinking he had not yet made the situation bad enough, Ahmad offered, “Maybe if you arranged the trees differently, their magic become stronger.”
That was enough to break the silence that had fallen upon the judges. “Of what madness does he speak?” Hasmet turned to Ozal, almost snarling.
“What do you mean -- their magic would be stronger?” Ozal felt the hairs on his arm stand up. The truth was the god-trees had been shrinking for years now. But Ozal had said nothing about this, not to Ahmad, not even to his own sister. It was the kind of discussion that was not supposed to reach beyond the walls of the Stand. It was fodder for apocalyptic dreamers: magic was ending, and the gods were abandoning Kadehir.
“The magic from the trees is...weak,” Ahmad explained. “Like drawing water from a well where someone threw stones. Only one tree has all its magic. That is why it is so tall.”
He pointed to the Shadow.
A cold shiver passed through Ozal. The Shadow had always been the tallest of the trees, but had it actually grown taller over the years as its brethren declined?
“Enough of this,” the Master of Magical Education said at last. “Strange desert superstitions have no place here. Either ask a favor of the Gods, or consider this trial failed.” He turned to Ozal and said, not entirely under his breath, “I thought you said you had brought a healer, not a heathen.”
Ozal drew in a sharp breath, but if Ahmad heard he gave no indication. Instead, he merely shrugged. “The healthiest, then.” He reached out a hand and a branch from the Shadow unfurled to reach it.
Usually the passing of the first trial was met with applause; only a stunned silence greeted Ahmad now.
“On to the second trial, then,” the Master said weakly.
