Reluctant Wizard (Warriors of Magic #1)
Chapter 1
~1~
F or 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?”
“Yes, Provost,” Alise answered, sick at heart but unable to deny the truth.
“You were already on probation .” Provost Uriel smacked her palm on the desk, a psychic echo slapping Alise’s mind with stinging emphasis. “Do you recall our conversation regarding your status here, a dialogue we conducted right here, in this very office, not three months ago?”
Alise winced. “I do recall, Provost Uriel.”
“Would you please indulge me and reiterate the, what I thought were very clear, conditions for you to be readmitted to the academy following your last unauthorized excursion? Please begin with the part where I granted you a second chance when I did not have to and in truth had serious reservations about extending.”
Well, this sucked even more than Alise had anticipated. She really hadn’t expected to feel guilty. Not about this, anyway. “You graciously granted me the second chance I asked for, and—”
“That you pleaded for,” the provost corrected.
“That I pleaded for,” Alise agreed glumly, staring at the blunt toes of her boots. “I agreed to all of your conditions—the campus restrictions, the heavy course load, that I would apply myself diligently.” She lifted her gaze, meeting the provost’s. “I accepted the independent study you assigned me, Provost Uriel, and pursued it in good faith. If I may be so bold, I’ll add that I followed through on all of those commitments. My grades were excellent.”
The provost regarded her with pinched lips, then heaved a sigh of exasperation. “You being bold, Wizard Alise, does not seem to be in question. I should count my blessings not to have more bold Elal scions like you and your sister.”
Alise noted with considerable interest that the provost didn’t include Nander in that group. She also said nothing, choosing that course of action as the wisest in the moment.
The provost sighed again. “You were doing well. That’s only one frustrating aspect of the problem you present. You had made impressive strides, particularly with what you’d uncovered in the course of your independent study.”
Alise gave the provost a cautiously questioning look. The terms of her independent study had never been explicitly outlined. The provost had simply given her a full-access pass to the Convocation Archives—a rather dizzying amount of freedom for a mere student—and listed herself as faculty advisor. The provost, possibly acting in House Uriel’s interest, given their long enmity with House Hanneil, had basically given Alise license to look for Hanneil interference in the official Convocation records, especially regarding the fall of House Phel. Alise had sent regular reports to the provost, as her independent study advisor, but Provost Uriel had never replied, nor had she given any indication she’d read, or even received those missives.
Of course, Alise’s “findings” had all been in the negative column: no records of House Phel remained in Convocation Archives. The real discovery had come about when she’d finally relaxed her pride, and justifiable caution, enough to ask for a librarian’s help, which was when she met Cillian. He verified her findings—or, rather, lack thereof.
“That’s why Wizard Cillian was taking me to House Harahel, to search the original documents there and…” She took a breath, decided she might as well say it. After all, the provost’s office was privacy shielded. “And potentially petition House Harahel to investigate suspected tampering in the official archives.”
The provost didn’t exactly straighten, but her psychic magic focused on Alise with an intensity that communicated her complete attention, wizard-black eyes snapping with alert interest. “Librarian Harahel did not mention that information in his field trip requisition to me. A missive that, I might mention, did not request permission, but rather informed me of the expedition,” she added with irritated distaste.
Oh, Cillian. Alise managed not to roll her eyes, but Cillian’s special blend of absentminded professor and single-minded researcher nevertheless filled her with exasperation. “He likely thought he was being discreet, given the nature of our inquiry.”
“Hmm.” Provost Uriel tapped silver-pointed nails on the desk. “I suppose I shall soon enough discover from the horse’s mouth exactly what he was thinking, if he was at all.”
Alise managed not to wince, but she did send a mental apology to Cillian for throwing him to this particular wolf. She didn’t have a very high MP score in psychic magic, so he wouldn’t get the message. Not to mention that meddling in minds even that much was highly unethical and absolutely illegal.
“Will Lord and Lady Phel be petitioning House Harahel in your stead?” the provost asked abruptly.
“Ah, erm, I don’t know,” Alise ventured. “There were a great many things to deal with in the aftermath of the battle at House Phel, injuries and property destruction, and then we received your summons to return to Convocation Academy and—”
“I see. No need to continue. I’ll discuss with Archivist Harahel. He should be waiting outside in the anteroom. Please send him in on your way out.”
“Ah…” Alise hesitated, surprised to be dismissed already, and the provost glanced up impatiently. “Where should I go?” Alise ventured.
“To class ,” the provost answered as if Alise were dense. She raised platinum brows in astonishment. “I’m given to believe you’re substantially behind in your coursework. You have a great deal to do to catch up if you’re to graduate on time.”
“Yes, Provost,” Alise breathed, rather startled by the immense relief she felt at being allowed to continue her studies. The sense of reprieve came as a stark contrast to her earlier unhappiness about being back at Convocation Academy only a short time before. “Thank you, Provost Uriel,” she said sincerely, tempted to bow.
The provost flicked her fingers in dismissal. “My reward shall be penning a missive to Lord Piers Elal, explaining why he cannot withdraw his daughter from my school. I believe I shall enjoy tweaking his nose. Begone, Wizard Alise. Please consider a change of clothing before you return to class.”
Alise flushed, surprised to be chagrined. “I was planning to, Provost Uriel,” she replied with dignity. “Thank you for this second, second-chance.”
“You paying attention to your independent study project would be thanks enough. And, I am begging you,” the provost added with a glare and a ping of psychic reinforcement, “don’t screw up again.”