Chapter 17: Chapter 16: Wounded Whiffs

Clanadrin was not known to hold her tongue. She laid all what she had observed of their little new novice to the principal. She had after all, inclined to the duty of becoming her teacher, but she did not expect the rowdiness of five year olds. In a way, her report to Zazun had a hint of disdain. “Oh, she was very diligent, Master, but those critters were becoming bugs themselves,” the scholar said, her hands flickering as she imitated the tiny crawling creatures. “Can’t even stay for a second on their seats, scampering and always asking about why my hair was black and all. Young bigots for one they-”

“Yes, but about the princess. You did understand that on taking this task, you have appreciated the technicalities of children. But Scholar Beramontin, I would like to know if she is coping well with the other students,” Zazun persisted.

Clanadrin was finally out of her disgruntled thoughts. “Forgive me, Master. I have ratted excessively,” she eased. “I was never one to teach younger than adolescents, it was too much of a surprise. As for the princess, no, Master, she is not.” Zazun’s demeanor crumpled, he had expected the situation however. “Fledglings as they are, they still had, as prior to what my ears and eyes have told me," she faltered, "-have already inherited that one-sided view on hierarchies and their monarchs. And a crown amidst future barons meant that anything the other children did to her, hurtful or not at all, still meant heavy consequences.”

It did not sound grave, but Zazun drank as much as he could. His mind strummed and tugged at the balance between the careful threads of the noble family and his responsibility to the school. “If we leave her so innocent, my dear, we might lose a hopeful student. Much so, a princess,” he concluded distressingly.

“This was I was afraid, Master. I-”

Knock knock, the Lord Visor’s door crooned.

Clanadrin, noticing her que, ushered to stand. “I will await your orders Master. If you may excuse me.” She nodded to him and received the return gesture before the principal inquired the new guest, “who seeks me?”

Clanadrin was much near the door when it opened a crack to reveal a young student’s head. “It's us, Doyen Lord Visor, former apprentices of the trade Masters of Skiethalon Guild,” it said. Noticing Clanadrin’s presence, the girl immediately inclined, “Oh sorry, Mistress.” Curtsied out the door, Clanadrin ignored the two young students entering and shifted to deal with the other task at hand. One she did not like a bit.

 

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“Ah! Good that you two are here,” Malrow heard the principal as the passing Mistress' scent drove him to a muted frenzy. Instantly realizing that distinct gritty smell of graphite and paste, he shuddered when they were permitted inside. His instinct to flee was about to make him leave Mihca when he had found no sight of the little girl. He hid his own wash of relief.

“Lady Mihca Faraforn and Lord Malrow Skiethalon, correct?” asked the Lord Visor.

“Yes, Master,” his friend replied.

Notwithstanding the title, Malrow in an instant corrected flatly, “just Malrow.” He could feel his companion’s inquisitive glance as he piped it in.

“Ye… yes. Malrow and Lady Mihca,” the principal acknowledged. He then continued, “You were sent here for a short recap and additional tasks regarding your scholarship given by the school and the Lord Christiya.” Mihca was nodding when the principal flipped out the papers with his left hand. Doubting the awkward flourish, Malrow’s attention then took to the bandaged right. What… he thought silently. Knowing he could not gauge a question out of it, Malrow promptly did what he was always good at. Smelling.

“Lady Faraforn, your tasks are…” He started to steer away from the lengthened instructions. Malrow knew, in highlight of the recent events, required a higher taciturn perception, and he did not want the others to know of his own pursuit.

He breathed in...

Of winter wind, the strongest scent. Northern wind.

Of the goddess’ power, the eth, the principal's power.

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Ash and burnt wood, a fireplace and candles.

Sour foot… a very sour foot.

Musky and dried, papers and books.

Sweet flowers, water, and mold, corrosion. Death.

From the shaded depts of his mind, a distant faded voice sang into his ear. “Malrow!... Malrow! Malrow, hide!” And like living that memory again, the taste of blood was momentarily present on his tongue.

“Malrow? Malrow!" He felt his feet giving away when the friendly voice asked him another, "You alright?” When his head was swaying, Mihca’s warm hand had dampened his cold face. The mage lights rubbed against his companion's brunnte hair and made him winced. Gaining control of his keen periphery, it was late for him to have noticed the firm grip of the principal’s arm around his waist.

“Does this happen often?,” the Doyen Lord Visor asked as they started to lay him on a soft cushion. A warm sofa.

“Very much. Something he had since he was still a child,” Mihca provided.

Ever since that time, Malrow recollected. As the passing headache reared to a silent numb, he then tried to ground himself to the room. Not wanting to dig enough dirt for his own grave, he avoided smelling everything around him, especially the corroded arm. The plush velvet coach gave enough comfort for his head to incline. The light of the room was now fading into a gentle hue. The warmth, the fireplace beyond was finally giving to use. His tongue, dry and bereft of the rust. The worried whispers…

“Shall I send him to the infirmary?” asked the Lord Visor.

“No my Lord, please. He has that condition where his own healer had given him instructions to do. I cannot assure we might be able to help him without an entire moon of examination.”

There was a long silence before the principal gave in. “Alright, Lady. But you both must assure me of more papers of this… condition. He is afterall to be my new apprentice.”

“Yes, my lord, as it should.”

“We might have to-” the new knock faltered him from the break of worry.

 

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Alve entered a hall from which in turn opened to the comfiest room she had ever been. Once the Sergeant had announced her name and the voice from the inside allowed them to enter, she found the large dark wooden desk to be firstly very attractive. The entrance was carpeted red, and all sorts of tightened scrolls and books lay at the wall of shelves. Mage lights atop their pedestals were a familiar sight, but the flaming sconces attached to the concrete wall near the desk gave an arrant regality. There were twin stairs just right next to the flames that led to the opened ceiling, circular like her own hundreds of books. To the left was another room corner of sickly combined piles of books and papers. Another desk was also filled with glass and metal apparatuses that hardly a child like her could be allowed to touch. There were flat glass windows harrying just above the dome room, giving the resting Torion enough time to fasten the last of his evening descent. And when she came to look at the right corner, she found a fireplace, lit to a good hearty accent. And just like her’s, it was accompanied by the same semblance of seats. The two individuals sitting there, however reared every attention she had.

She felt the girl’s curiosity. But unlike the hum of intrigue that Alve had been feeling the entire day, the boy next to the girl was only seething with anger and exhaustion.

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