Chapter 12
~12~
C illian sat alone at dinner with a book open, pretending to read, but surreptitiously scanning the incoming students for Alise’s arrival. Faculty and staff ate first, and most of them had already supped and gone, preferring to avoid the cacophony of student diners. It wouldn’t do for him to be obviously watching for Alise, given the apparent gossip. Still, as he had the evening before, Cillian lingered over his meal, ostensibly absorbed in his reading, waiting to make sure she ate.
She hadn’t shown yet, however, and if she skipped one more meal… Well, he’d make good on his threat and inform the healers. He understood her pride and stubbornness, but he couldn’t stand by and let her drive herself into the ground. With a bit of time before he started the night shift in the archives, Cillian kept an eye on the clock, resolved to go directly to the Refoel healers on the way.
But then she walked in.
So absolutely gorgeous that she stopped his heart in his chest and he stared at her, riveted, completely forgetting that he’d meant to be discreet.
Alise glowed, shining with magic, as replete as he’d ever witnessed—making him realize that he’d never actually seen her with her reservoirs filled. Even when she’d accepted magic from others, she must not have taken as much as she could have, which just figured. Whatever she’d done this time, she’d finally gotten plenty. Her skin, smooth and radiant, beckoned to be caressed, her black eyes snapping with fiery sparks, and Cillian fancied he could scent her magic even from across the room, sun-warmed roses on a hot summer afternoon, redolent and sensual. He caught himself inhaling, perilously close to falling into an erotic reverie. Quickly getting a grip, he glanced self-consciously about to see if he’d been observed—and found Proctor Raya’s knowing gaze on him.
Wiping the guilt from his face, he nodded at her, then kept sweeping his gaze around the room, attempting to look thoughtful, as if simply taking a break from his reading before returning his attention to the book without looking at Raya again. After a moment, he slid a peek at Raya from the corner of his eye. She had turned her attention to a group of students, scowling at them, and allowing Cillian to quickly check on Alise.
To his immense relief, she’d piled food on a tray with a semblance of enthusiasm, though she did not need to be drinking that huge mug of coffee this late in the day. Head down, she moved deliberately to an empty table, not bothering to look for spots with any of her friends. Former friends, he mentally corrected, noting that everyone carefully avoided noticing Alise, the social ostracism very near total. Cillian mentally kicked himself for not realizing how isolated Alise had become at Convocation Academy. Granted, he tended to be a loner himself, happy to be ensconced with his books and projects, but he also knew not everyone was like that.
Before she’d helped Han and Iliana escape, Alise had been a social butterfly, one of the reigning royalty of student-wizards with high MP scores, excellent grades, and a high-house pedigree. It was good to see her regain some of her previous radiance and he wondered who’d given her magic. He squelched a niggle of envy that perhaps Alise had a nascent romance with some familiar. He should be happy for her in that case, that she’d be getting both deeply-needed affection and companionship, along with boosting her magic. Still, he wanted it to be him. Not at all reasonable, and yet…
He shook himself out of the reverie and quickly finished his meal. Now that he’d verified Alise’s wellbeing, he could move on. He certainly couldn’t sit with her anymore, not with Raya and apparently half the academy—or more—watching and speculating. Cillian had never been a figure of interest to anyone before, so it hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would pay attention. He also wasn’t naturally inclined to gossip about others. He had, however, occasionally envied—that emotion again—the laughing groups of friends, the social elite. He’d been the guy with a few good friends, but never the center of anything. Mostly he’d been fine with that, though in a down moment a wistful, maybe bitter part of him had wished it otherwise.
So, for the first time, he perceived the ugly side of that kind of social admiration. Those bright and shining students worked well as a pack, impervious to all who thought to attack them. But they turned on each other with equal fervor, banishing the wounded and imperfect with ruthless ease.
Alise never saw him, never looked up as he passed out of the dining hall. At least she was eating, he told himself. And she’d gotten magic. So, no need to turn her in to the healers.
Also, he had information for her, plenty sufficient as a peace offering and enticement to visit the archives, and him. He hoped.
Alise glared at the Ratsiel courier perched on the lintel over the door to her room. An innocuous owl-like creature in Convocation Academy colors, it was exactly the sort of messenger used by faculty to communicate with students. It could have come from any of her professors, but she didn’t have to guess who’d sent it: Cillian. How in the dark arts was she supposed to protect him if the man couldn’t take a freaking hint?
Resigned to the inevitable—the courier would simply follow her around until she accepted the message—she held up a hand for the ethereal owl to land. It did, making contact with her skin with a tiny buzz of magic. House Ratsiel also wielded spirit magic, summoning and taming entities, shaping them to specifications for their Convocation customers, from tiny to enormous. The wealthier houses and iconic institutions loved to have their branding reflected by the couriers they used. The academy owl deposited a small scroll into her palm and, objective achieved, flitted away.
Unlocking her door, Alise stepped inside, the scroll folded in her palm. She could decline to open it, but that delaying tactic would go only so far. First, however, she scanned the room for any spies that might have arrived since her scouring efforts. Happily, the measures she’d taken to seal the room against further intrusion seemed to have worked. Using a measure of her newly acquired reserves, she strengthened the wards she’d placed to keep any new spies away, then triggered the seal on the courier’s missive. It would register that she’d received it, but oh well.
As expected, Cillian had sent it, asking her to meet him in the archives that night to discuss her project.
Crumpling the parchment into a ball, she hurled it across the room, where it bounced harmlessly off the wall and fluttered to the floor. Dark arts take that wizard! A complex emotion balled up within her, comprised of equal parts frustration, desperation, affection, and hatred. She didn’t hate Cillian—she knew that—but she hated for him to be involved, hated his stubborn refusal to be put off. And she hated herself for being unable to do anything about it. She would not go running to his beck and call, however. Definitely not right away. She had more important things to do, after all. Like figure out how to stabilize her bottle of teeming spirits so they wouldn’t drain her to the nubbins while she slept, like the night before. And she needed to keep her promise to Brinda Chur and write a letter to Nic, which would take a while, figuring out how to subtly elicit the necessary information. Fortunately Nic had gifted her with a few pre-packaged Ratsiel couriers that would convey a letter home, just as soon as she composed it.
Then there was the mountain of schoolwork, which she had yet to prioritize. She really needed to triage all of that. “I have no time for your games, Cillian,” she muttered to herself.
Much as she’d love to avoid him altogether, she couldn’t refuse the summons any more than she could have declined receiving it in the first place. Like a Ratsiel courier, Cillian would metaphorically follow her about, hovering over her shoulder, pinging her attention—and drawing notice. If Cillian thought Alise hadn’t noticed him in the dining hall, he was sorely mistaken. Lingering over his meal while pretending to read. He was about as subtle as a violet rhinoceros.
The more she fumed about it, the hotter her annoyance boiled, until it became abundantly clear that she would have no attention for anything else until she dispensed with the problem of Cillian. This time, however, she’d be smarter about not flaunting her conversation with Cillian for Gordon Hanneil to take note.
Taking a page from Courtney Ariel’s playbook, Alise opted for disguising her movements. Yes, she’d always viewed the way some Elal wizards used spirits to hide themselves from sight as a vain party trick, but it could work to her advantage. She could also learn from the enemies of House Phel—which probably included House Elal—and how they’d hidden the encroaching army from detection until Phel was surrounded. That bit of subterfuge had very nearly won the war before it even began.
Grateful for the infusion of Brinda’s magic, which was as bright and potent as advertised, Alise prepared to summon an entity of sufficient nature to cloak herself with. Then thought again. Feeling particularly clever, instead of summoning a new spirit, Alise repurposed one of her throng of bottled entities. If they were going to be draining her magic, they might as well be useful while doing it. It took a bit of finagling to extract a couple of the types she wanted from the tangle of seething spirits demanding release, but she managed without too much difficulty. In fact, she performed the intricate balancing act more easily than the night before. Nothing like having a sufficient reserve of magic to get the job done.
Also, she observed wryly to herself, there could be something to Professor Cixin’s concept of diligent practice. Go figure. Not that she’d ever been a lax student—certainly nothing like Nander-level slacking—but she’d also always had enough talent to skate by. Only now, forced to dig deep in order to catch up and due to enemies popping threats out of the woodwork, did she discover that she could improve, and quite rapidly, when she cared enough.
In the back of her mind, a cautionary voice warned her about getting too proficient. Remember what you did, the insidious whisper echoed in the dark places. You murdered your own maman. Look at your papa. He started the destruction that eroded her mental and physical health, but you finished it. You’re even worse than he is.
The harsh truth of that upset her enough that Alise nearly bobbled the job of extracting the spirits she wanted from the bottle—which would release them all and she’d have to start over with tethering and trapping them again, all the more difficult because they knew what lay in store for them. The entities didn’t exactly think, but they weren’t stupid either. They learned from experience, especially unpleasant ones. Avoidance of bad situations didn’t take a lot of intelligence.
In fact, Alise felt a little bad sealing the bottle against the trapped spirits, all trying so hard to escape. She had to find a real solution to her temporary storage bottle. There had to be something between having the bound entities free to spy on her and keeping them in a miserable purgatory.
For the moment, however, with her captives safely constrained again, Alise focused on the two entities she’d extracted. They’d report back on her excursion to the archives, but that would come as no surprise to their handlers. Alise had spent weeks already going to the archives nightly. Tonight’s subterfuge was entirely to keep Gordon Hanneil from knowing her movements. If she played this correctly, this would be her last time having anything but the most distant interactions with Cillian.
Ignoring the pang that prospect gave her, Alise shrouded herself in the obscuring cloak of the large, diffuse spirits. Checking her reflection in the mirror, she confirmed that she’d vanished from ordinary eyesight. Her wizard senses easily penetrated the deception, but perceiving incorporeal entities obviously fell squarely in her greatest expertise. Other wizards might sense something unusual, but only if she drew their attention.
Alise had no intention of doing anything to attract scrutiny. Unlocking her door, she stretched her senses to confirm that the hall was empty. The academy didn’t have a lights out rule for the older students, but they did strictly enforce quiet hours, which meant no lingering in public spaces. If you were going to be up late, you’d best be somewhere quiet doing legitimate work. The night proctors saw to that.
As she skimmed down the hall, making sure to walk softly and silently—the spirits muffled sound, but didn’t silence and it took a lot of concentration to maintain a silencing shield on the move—she passed a proctor staring into space, stationed at the entrance to the wing to keep non-wizard students out. Too bad they don’t keep malevolent proctors out, Alise thought acidly. The good news was that the bored proctor never even blinked as Alise passed.
So far, so good. She passed students, proctors, and the occasional faculty member on her way to the archives, all of them blissfully unaware of her presence. It was incredibly restful. Why didn’t she think of this a long time ago? Because you never before existed at this level of crushing paranoia, she reminded herself. Oh, right.
She made it to the archives without incident, feeling quite pleased with herself, all things given. Approaching the reference desk where Cillian worked the night shift, she realized the major flaw in her plan. How to notify him of her presence? Alise pondered the problem as she watched him assist a young, blonde uncat. Cillian had erected a courtesy silencing shield, but Alise could guess at the conversation from the visuals. He seriously explained something to the girl, probably about sixteen years old, who giggled and nervously twirled her hair around her finger. Suspicious, Alise noted two of the student’s friends hovering a short distance away, avidly observing. Ah, so that was the way of it.
Alise rolled her eyes, since no one could see her, and settled in to observe the amateur flirtation underway. Cillian, naturally, remained utterly oblivious to the blonde’s posturing, even when she bent over his shoulder, frowning prettily, to read whatever he pointed to. She turned her head to ask him a question, her face much too close to his and Cillian replied without looking at her. Typical Cillian. If the girl lived in a book, he might notice her, but no chance otherwise. Why was she interested anyway? He was much too old for her.
Not so much intrigued as bored with waiting, Alise sidled closer to the spectating friends, shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation. They whispered to each other quite audibly.
“Dark arts, he is so cute !” the first quietly squealed.
“I can’t believe Treena won the draw,” the other pouted. “Wizard Harahel has barely looked at her.”
“He’s so serious, so thoughtful. I would love to be his familiar.”
“Yes, he’d be a lovely wizard-master. Such a cinnamon roll.”
That raised Alise’s brows. Cillian baked cinnamon rolls for these students? Not that he wasn’t free to distribute his baked goods to all and sundry, and probably did, but she’d somehow thought she was special.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, all sweet and soft and warm on the inside. The perfect man.”
The two sighed in dreamy unison.
Sweet? Thought Alise. The guy was bossy and annoyingly stubborn.
“He has the best mouth,” one of the pair said in a reverent hush. “So pretty.”
“Like an angel. I bet he kisses like one. Or like a demon!”
“And those black curls. What wouldn’t I give to run my fingers through them?”
“They’re not black—they’re more like dark chocolate. Those ringlets are just long enough to for you to get a good grip and hold him down while he devours you like one of his pastries,” the other agreed, both breaking into a spate of giggles.
Alise blushed furiously, face hot as she belatedly got their meaning. She knew about sex, naturally, even the… ah, variations, the girls giggled over. But Maman had raised her to be a lady. Alise had never been so ribald with friends in discussing potential bed partners. Although, the more she thought about it, the more Alise could see that she’d never really had that many friends, at least not to giggle over romance with, even before she became a social pariah. And how pitiful was that?
She grew impatient with Treena’s extended flirtation attempt, and with listening to Treena’s friends extoll Cillian’s many virtues—observable and fantasized. Cillian showed no sign of flagging, clearly re-explaining the same concepts to Treena. Alise nearly threw up her hands in frustration when another two students queued up, waiting their turns. At this rate, she would be there all night.
At least the new arrivals made Treena give up her personal siege. With a batting of eyes and a last, longing glance that was utterly lost on the oblivious Cillian, she dragged herself away, then fell into a gleeful analysis with her friends. Alise continued to wait, shifting from foot to foot, unable to stop thinking about the many admiring and frequently salacious comments the students had made about the quiet archivist.
He did have soulful eyes, full of compassionate intelligence, with a fringe of black lashes that softened the sharper lines of his face. “Cheekbones to cut glass,” the girls had said, and a “bow of a mouth” in a “heart-shaped face.” Alise couldn’t help considering their descriptors. She supposed all that was true, though never how she would have described him. It was his kindness that shone through for her, that innate ability to look for the best in people. Even in her, she who least deserved it.
Cillian finished with the final student and looked directly at Alise. “That’s a long time to lurk,” he commented, startling her. Before she could think up a reply—she really hadn’t thought this part out—he added. “I’ve got a private place for us to talk.”
Setting out a sign next to a spelled Ratsiel courier, encouraging patrons to send it to fetch him if they needed immediate assistance, Cillian came around the desk and began walking briskly to some remote corner. With no other recourse, Alise followed, firming her resolve. No matter where he led her, they would finish this and be done.
They ended up in an obscure nook of the library Alise had never seen. Judging by the stale feeling of the corner, neither had anyone else. A desk piled high with binders sat to one side and Cillian confidently moved to them. “You can drop the spirit cloak,” he told her. “No one will see us here.”
Feeling a bit foolish, she let the entities float up to hover near the ceiling. “How did you know I was there?” she demanded.
“I smelled your magic,” he said, tapping the side of his nose with a wry, half-smile. “I know it’s not really a scent, but that, of course, is the synesthesia via which most of us experience the magic of others.”
“Synesthesia?” she echoed.
“Essentially a kind of sensory crossover, though that doesn’t apply perfectly when one is sensing the presence of magic.” He sorted the binders, continuing in a professorial tone. “Our physical senses didn’t evolve to detect and interpret magic, but our sensitivity to magic still alerts us to its presence and our brains decode it as something that is standard sensory information. Olfaction, being the oldest sense, is the most common synesthesia, but a significant portion of wizards and familiars experience the presence of magic as a visual field, or even somatosensory. Auditory is the rarest, for unknown reasons. Anyway…” He cleared his throat. “I smelled your magic the moment you walked into the library.” He inhaled deeply, smile fully blooming. “Roses and hot sunshine.”
So freaking charming. Alise glared at him in impotent annoyance. “Brinda Chur gave me some magic. That’s the hot part you sense. Or smell.” Immediately she regretted telling him that. She’d wanted to combat his sentimentality, not confide sensitive information.
“Ah, I wondered who did that. Very nice of her.” His pleased expression faded as he searched her face. “Or was it?”
Alise waved that off, not at all about to explain. She couldn’t quite predict what he’d make of the bargain, but she didn’t want to hear his opinion, either way. “Irrelevant.”
He nodded slowly, unconvinced, studying her—then pointed to the hovering entities. “Impressive trick, with the cloaking. I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Not terribly effective if any wizard can smell or see my magic anyway,” she noted. How did the others handle that aspect?
“Probably not just any wizard,” he reassured her, leaning a hip on the corner of the desk and crossing his arms, gentle black eyes earnest. “I’m attuned to you. That is…” He uncrossed his arms and rubbed his palms on his thighs, gaze shifting away. “From being around you. Nothing untoward. And Nic!” He clapped his hands together and joined them. “Your magic feels the same. I just, ah, happened to notice it at House Phel. Interesting phenomenon, really, that Elal magic is so distinctive. Lord Phel’s is too, for that matter. And House Chur—you may have noticed, with Brinda—they have a distinctive scent/feel to their magic. Not every house does. That would be an interesting study. Of course, many houses are built around a particular business area that requires wizards and familiars of a variety of magic specialties, so they wouldn’t have a homogenous feel to the magic. Still, most houses also have a central familial line, sometimes maintained by very tight inbreeding, so they might be more likely to have a distinctive magical vibration that translates as a consistent scent or visual via synesthesia. Not to say that House Elal is inbred! I’m simply observing that—” He broke off with a wince. “I’m simply babbling, is what I’m doing. I apologize.”
Alise, bemused, found herself relaxing, her unfounded irritation with him dispersing like an unbound spirit. “It is an interesting question,” she allowed. “I didn’t know about the synesthesia, but for me it’s visual and sometimes tactile, depending.”
His smile bloomed. “Fascinating stuff. But that’s all beside the point. How are you?”
His assessing, penetrating stare stirred her annoyance again. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me, Cillian.”
“And yet you travel under a cloaking illusion. We’re alone here. No one ever bothers me in this little corner, so you’re safe—but don’t try to tell me you’re not afraid.”
“I’m not trying to tell you anything,” she snapped, abruptly over the edge again. “I have no reason to be afraid, of anyone. I’m only being discreet. There are rumors about us, if you aren’t aware.” She hadn’t really meant to say anything about that, either. Cillian’s tendency to blurt out every thought that crossed his mind was rubbing off on her.
“I’m surprised you care about idle speculation,” he said quietly. Not contradicting her, she noticed. “People love to imagine things. No one with any sense believes there is anything going on between us, other than a collegial relationship. A mentor/mentee association. Totally aboveboard. You may send anyone who questions that to me and I will set them straight.”
He looked so uncharacteristically stern, sounded so impassive, that Alise definitely doubted what Gordon Hanneil had said. Cillian was obviously not in love with her. She had offended his sense of order and academic compliance by trying to discontinue the project with him. She’d confused her own murky feelings about him with… Well, with whatever.
“Understood,” she replied in an equally neutral tone. “And I don’t. Care, that is. I just thought to be discreet.”
“Ah,” he said, clearly not believing her. “Well, I asked you to see me tonight because I have some information for you about Gordon Hanneil.”
The spinning of the world came to halt so abrupt, Alise nearly staggered, the blood palpably draining from her face, making her cold all over. “Uh, ah…” she stammered, her tongue thick. “Who?”
The look he gave her was all disappointed supervisor. “Let’s have honesty between us, please. I found out the name of the proctor who frightened you yesterday, the one who’d disguised himself from me. I discovered something else, too. Gordon Hanneil isn’t his real name.”