"You've missed the last two days of lessons," said Jebb.
"I wasn't feeling well," said Meyer, staring out the window. Tempests were scattered around on Hillside Green, enjoying the free afternoon leading up to the weekend, but if Meyer wanted to join them, it was only to escape Jebb's suffocating office. The self portrait seemed to be smiling in a particularly obnoxious fashion.
"Next time you should know that here in Eldrin's Dale we visit the healing ward when we are unwell," said Jebb. His tone was didactic if not slightly condescending, but his eyes were beady, a thin streak of color creeping up his neck.
Meyer repressed a sigh. He should never have been so bold as to meander into the dining hall after missing three lessons with Adryn, another two with Trant, and one with Landon, not to mention an Ajah practice session with Kellis. At the least, he should have prepared an excuse so he wouldn't have had to mutter at his feet when Jebb descended upon him...
"I should have gone to the healing ward," said Meyer submissively.
"Absolutely," said Jebb. "Falling ill is understandable, but disappearing for two days is unacceptable. Do you have anything else to say for yourself?"
Meyer tried to contrive a gushing apology, but the words escaped him. "Sorry," he said.
Jebb's eyes narrowed, the single word of atonement seemingly the equivalent of an insult. "Very well," he said. "I will determine the appropriate punishment."
Meyer bowed his head as he pushed back his chair.
"Excuse me," said Jebb. "In Eldrin's Dale we wait to leave until our seniors have dismissed us."
Meyer sat back down. The red color from Jebb's neck had spread to his face.
"This is not your punishment," continued Jebb, "but as a sign of respect, you will apologize to Planar Trant, Landon, and Adryn during your next lesson with them. Further—"
But Meyer had cut Jebb off, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them. "I'm not going to Adryn's lessons anymore," he said.
Jebb's eyes widened, his breathing heavy as he spluttered several incoherent words. "What—you—"
"I'm not going," said Meyer, and his tone was final; he stared forward, thinking vaguely of Sarn.
Jebb stood up, his face red, but at a loss of words. Finally he found his voice. "That is no way to talk to a Planar!" he seethed, his finger pointed down, repeatedly gesturing at the desk. "There will be consequences for this!"
Meyer sat, unflinching. When Jebb said nothing, Meyer pushed back his chair, and started for the exit. As he closed the door to the office, he could hear Jebb yell behind him: "Dismissed!"
Yet despite the threat of future punishment, Meyer was in markedly higher spirits as he returned to the dormitories. He would pay for his insolence later, but for the moment, the knowledge that Jebb was fuming in his office seemed the best alternative to learning that Eschera was dead. Indeed, when Meyer recounted the story to Cade and Ander, the latter laughed so loudly that Reed poked his head into the room and told Ander to shut up. Even then Ander continued to chortle, and for the rest of the weekend his new favorite phrase was 'a Jebb meltdown' (which could be applied in contexts varying from a Nahd tempest crying upon discovering he had lost his talisman, to suffering an overwhelming loss in Bolo).
In fact, over the next two days, both Ander and Cade appeared to be particularly chipper. Cade still spent a few hours holed away with his latest memory charm book, and Ander got in a heated argument with Fedge about seating rights to the most comfortable chair in the common room, but on the whole, both Ander and Cade were highly attentive to Meyer's entertainment.
Cade insisted that Meyer take his position as charmer during capture the flag, and Ander demanded Meyer declare his favorite desserts—a frustrating ordeal that Meyer assumed was a typical display of Ander antics, until he arrived at the dining hall to find his selection of cookies and pastries being served as the communal dessert.
Meyer knew his friends' sympathetic behavior reflected their attempt to make him feel comfortable in Eldrin's Dale again—to ease his concerns in the face of personal danger—and a part of him wanted to tell them to forget the act. Their friendliness and appeasement wasn't going to change anything; to the contrary, it trivialized the seriousness of the danger. And yet his friends' kindness was greatly more uplifting than depressing. They were trying to make the best of the situation, and Meyer could hardly fault them for that. Increasingly, he found himself grateful that his friends provided a distraction from Eschera and the ominous messages. He didn't want to think about it, and during the very brightest moments, he even wondered if he was misunderstanding the situation.
And so the weekend continued, a coupling of late July days repelling the cold sense of foreboding. Meyer noticed that Damian was missing from capture the flag, and saw him only once in the dining hall—eating in the corner of the room with Dirk and Liam—but he pushed the thoughts of remorse from his mind with the same conviction by which he dispelled thoughts of Eschera. He wouldn't regain equanimity brooding. When the weekend ended, Meyer went to sleep in higher spirits than he had in days. Unfortunately, the feelings were short lived.
"You're late," barked Trant as Meyer entered into the Planar's office the following afternoon. Per usual, the space was cold and dim, and Meyer thought, not for the first time, that Trant's office was undoubtedly gloomier than any other room in the Dale.
"My apologies, sir," said Meyer as he entered. He turned to take a seat in his normal place, but the chair was missing. Looking up, Meyer saw Trant glowering at him, from behind his desk, his dark eyes narrow and suspicious.
Trant waved his arm and the door slammed shut. The windowless room became a shade dimmer. "Shall we begin?" he said.
Meyer didn't have time to respond before an unexpected power came hurtling at him through the Currents. He tried to react, but was too late.
An invisible force wrapped around him, constricting his arms, and squeezing his legs. Unlike a body-bind charm, which locked his muscles... the restrictive assault tightened around him, crushing his bones...
"I have clearly been too forgiving in my instruction thus far," said Trant.
Meyer gasped for air, but as he tried to shout, the sound was swallowed upon leaving his lips.
"Never has a tempest of mine had the audacity to skip my lesson unexcused."
Meyer shouted again, but it was no use. He produced not even the faintest whisper.
"And still you appear to misunderstand the purpose of my lessons," continued Trant. "You are to learn Free Magic. That will neither happen if you disregard appointments, nor if you refuse to break free."
Trant took out a sand clock from his desk drawer and flipped it over, then unrolled a spool of parchment and began to write.
Meyer stared incredulously before straining his muscles, struggling against his bonds helplessly. The magical force holding his limbs in place continued to squeeze. For a moment he panicked, remembering the restraining enchantment Gibb had placed on him before Sarn subdued him with a Selzanara potion, but he forced himself to maintain composure. Trant wasn't going to place him into a trance. This was only a deranged form of punishment.
Gritting his teeth, Meyer fought to ignore the constricting pain, reaching for the Currents... At once he identified the force holding him in place, but as he tried to undo it, he fell deeper into the Currents, losing himself in their creases and folds.
Withdrawing with his magical sense, he found the force again, this time carefully following its path... higher... lower... bending... curving... Meyer began to lose focus, but he forced himself onward. He felt as though he were following a tangled string, endlessly twisted around itself, yet unlike a knot which loosed as its strands were extracted, the current he followed seemed to be growing narrower and tighter... and then, just when Meyer thought he could push no longer, he broke through. There was a piercing pain, and then he fell to the ground.
"Terrible," spat Trant. He turned over the hour glass on his desk. "Six minutes. You should break torsion enchantments in under a minute."
Meyer pushed himself to his feet, regarding Trant wearily. The Planar finished the note he was writing, placing it in a wooden box that rested on four legs. He covered the box with a finely carved lid, which sloped upwards to a rounded handle. Moving the box to the side of his desk, he looked back at Meyer.
"What's the matter?" he said. "Get over here."
Meyer stepped forward cautiously. He had always known Trant was harsh—he had struggled through the Planar's grueling lessons for over a month—and yet there was an unfamiliar fanaticism that glimmered in his eyes.
"The purpose of supplemental training is for you to attain abilities you would otherwise never achieve... And to do that takes discipline... dedication... "
Meyer stared at the floor. Why was he attending Trant's lessons? He had stopped going to Adryn's lessons, and Moon had said the training with Trant was not mandatory—he could terminate the sessions at will...
And yet as Meyer thought back on Moon's words, he remembered the once felt desire to prove his magical ability—to master the Currents so that upon returning to Vanroc he would be able to demonstrate his superiority. For a moment he felt wistful, remembering the not so distant time when he still cared about the Vanroc Guard—when his concern had been returning home, not preserving home. But then Trant's goading voice echoed through his thoughts. He clenched his jaw, meeting the Planar's contemptuous gaze.
"Let me explain," continued Trant. "As you already know, we face grave terrors on the horizon. The Magician is more terrible than you could imagine. In the face of such danger, only those with the utmost fortitude will be more than flotsam in the wake of conflict."
Meyer felt his pulse beating, his uncertainty giving way to anger. The Magician. He was the only threat anyone feared, as if he were the doom of the world. But everyone knew about the Magician; they were planning against him. Nobody knew about Eschera—about the people who had already died in the Outlands.
Trant bore down on him, his tone accusing and spiteful. "Are you going to be a helpless child, your fate resting on the whims of greater men, or do you have the tenacity to learn Free Magic and fight for your future?"
For a moment Meyer considered leaving the room—slamming the door and never visiting the basement of the Alchemy Building again. Trant had no right to question his toughness. The Planar didn't know the burden he carried...
Instead Meyer steadied his emotions. He wouldn't back down from Trant's challenge, and not because he cared what the Planar thought of him. Trant could believe him the weakest tempest in the Dale. But the offer of power, control of the future...
"I'll do what it takes, sir."
Trant withdrew a knife from his cloak, resting the tip against his desk. "Are you sure?"
Meyer stared into the Planar's eyes. "Yes."
With a careless flick, Trant picked up the knife, spinning it between his fingers. He rounded the desk, stepping towards Meyer. "First, trust no one—not in the open world, nor in the shelter of Eldrin's Dale. The enemy is always listening." He took a step closer to Meyer. "Second... know pain."
In a flash Trant slashed the knife across Meyer's left forearm, sending blood spurting forth. "Fix it," he said.
Meyer wanted to scream, to cradle his injured arm against his chest, but he steeled his nerves, reaching outwards with his magical sense. Even as he grasped for the Currents, the sharp pain in his arm invaded his consciousness, and as he pulled a strand of power, he felt his focus falter, the forces tattering...
Meyer redoubled his efforts, pulling from the Currents again. He could heal his arm with a basic nurasarrae charm, but Trant would only cut him deeper. He needed to mend his arm with Free Magic. Shaping the currents as they flowed through him, Meyer desperately directed them towards healing his arm...
He opened his eyes. The bleeding had stopped, but his arm still throbbed. The ground below him was stained with droplets of blood.
"Show me your arm," said Trant.
Meyer hesitated. He clenched his fingers into a fist and slowly extended his hand.
"Terrible," spat Trant. He flicked Meyer's arm and the cut burst open.
Meyer didn't wait for Trant's instructions. He pushed back into the Currents, fixing his arm... But no sooner had he sealed the wound than Trant's knife flashed again...
Blood—Pain... He healed himself...
Knife—Pain... Heal...
Again Blood—Heal...
Again—Knife... Heal...
Again... Pain...
Again... Again...
Meyer lost all sense of time as Trant repeatedly sliced his arm open. The pain never lessened, and the Currents only grew more hazy, but Meyer refused to let himself cry out. He thought of the severed heads... the people Eschera had already killed... He could handle it—just one more time—but it was never the last time. And then he collapsed, his arms landing in his own pool of blood.
Trant whispered, and the blood stains began to retract along the floor, the liquid forming into an ever growing droplet. Trant muttered and the plum sized globule of blood flew through the air, landing in a vial on Trant's desk, immediately diffusing into its liquefied state.
Trant turned his attention back to Meyer, who was still huddled on the floor. "The lesson is over."