Mage Heart. Jane Routley
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keep on with the boring grind. I was already qualified to become a mage. All I needed was the three years that would make me old enough.
Nothing it seemed could distract me from my despair at Michael's loss and my overwhelming sense of being all alone in the world. Until I discovered hazia.
I'd always avoided the other magic students. Michael had warned me against the friendly overtures of male students so often that I was cold and suspicious to them, and they left me completely alone. Nonetheless, during the desolate time after Michael's death, I did make a kind of friend. This was Mylon, whose room was near my own. He was two years younger than I and, moreover, such a vague and gentle soul that I found him completely unthreatening. It was he who told me of the wonderful dreams that were to be had from chewing the drug and who sold me my first lump of it. I had always loved to dream. I was too cautious to attend student hazia parties, but I experimented with the drug alone in my room.
Oh, the marvelous, sometimes terrifying, visions and dreams I had while chewing hazia. They blocked out loneliness and fear and took me to a world far outside the gritty rooms of the college. Once I'd discovered it, I spent many nights in the four months after Michael's death in a drug-induced haze or in related meditations. I'd even kept a detailed diary recording my experiences. It was the kind of thing I could get interested in. Michael would not have been surprised.
But I hadn't realized that those wonderful dreams existed anywhere outside myself. The possibility worried me now as I lay on my narrow, lumpy bed. I struggled not to think about it, but it ran round and round in my head till it felt as if it had carved out a dusty little path. Eventually I hypnotized myself into a mindless trance just to get some peace and quiet. At last, the college clock struck three and it was time to go and see the Dean.
It was the tired, grey end of winter. A searing cold wind whipped down the open cloisters and blew my woolen robe scratchily against my legs as I walked quickly to the Dean's office, head down, hands in sleeves, a demeanor which not only kept me warm but disguised any signs of hazia use as well. I felt better, more "normal" by then, although the students I passed on my way down the clammy corridors seemed to stare at me pointedly. Did they know? Was it obvious? Would the Dean notice? He was one of the few masters in the college who seemed to like me, and I hated the thought of disappointing him. I remembered having this nervous, suspicious feeling after other hazia episodes, but that didn't make it any better.
The Dean sat behind a desk that today seemed miles wide. Though his room was very grand, all dark wood paneling and carving as suited the head of such an important college, even in summer it was clammy cold and smelled of rot and damp. I always wondered how such an old man stood the chill, but then, most of the college rooms were like that. When I entered, the Student Supervisor, Master John, was leaning over the Dean, looking at some papers on the desk. Unfortunately. Master John was the most attractive of the academic staff, still quite young. He was tall, with dark hair and a serious demeanor, but I knew that, like most mages, he disapproved of women. This made me uncomfortable with him, made me worry about everything I said in front of him. Uselessly, because it always seemed to be the wrong thing no matter how much I tried. The fact that I'd sometimes daydreamed of turning the disapproval in his eyes into adoration didn't make the situation any more comfortable either.
The Dean rolled up the papers, and his mild elderly face creased in a reassuring smile. His face always took on a blind, questing look when he smiled. Such an old man must be quite shortsighted.
"I'm sorry I could not come earlier, sir. I was unwell."
"Yes, so Maya told me. I hope you are better now."
Maya. That was the healer's name. Had she told him about the hazia? I searched his face for signs of disapproval. But no, he seemed his usual calm and kind self.
He motioned me to sit down, so I took a seat on one of the hard chairs in front of the desk. To my secret dismay, Master John did not leave the room but stayed, leaning against the stone windowsill, his arms crossed. It was his right to stay, of course. As Student Supervisor, what concerned me, concerned him. But his sullenly attractive face seemed more than usually grim, his rather full lips clamped together in a hard line. It had not occurred to me before to wonder why the Dean had sent for me, but I now did so and found I was trembling with anxiety. It had to be something to do with hazia.
"Dion," said the Dean, "I have sent for you because I have decided that it is time to talk about your future. It was a question that worried your foster father deeply in his last days. He was sorely troubled by what would become of you after his death. He told me once that he feared he had done a terribly cruel thing to you by training you to be a mage and making you unfit for the only livelihoods open to a girl."
Michael had said this to me, too. He had always assumed that I would be able to take over his private practice. His clients knew me and had become used to being served by a woman, and I would have inherited his house and the small patch of land that came with it. With luck I could have made a living out of it. But that was before the Revolution of Souls forced us to flee Moria. After we came to Gallia, he worried a great deal about what would happen to me after he died. Positions open to students of the College of Magic, teaching positions or postings with the great families or city-states, had never been filled by women, and nobody would trust a female mage enough for her to set up a private practice. The only branch of magic normally open to women was healing, a task for which my years of training as a mage made me badly qualified and, moreover, one for which Michael felt I was temperamentally unsuited.
"Your foster father entrusted me with the task of finding you some livelihood, and since his death I have been casting around for openings. I have not liked to speak of it before now. I felt it was too soon. But circumstances have arisen which make it imperative.
"Oh God, I thought, I knew it. They've found out about the hazia. They're going to throw me out.
"You are well aware that because of your foster father's teaching, you are one of the most advanced pupils in this college. Everything but your age qualifies you to be a Magus. Now a position has come up for which you, as a girl, would be uniquely suited. In fact the Duke has asked for you."
Relief. Excitement. Amazement.
"The Duke?"
"Yes, Dion," said the Dean. He looked pointedly at Master John.
"What is this position, sir?"
"We'll come to that in a moment. In view of your foster father's advanced teaching, you are well able to handle the position magically even though you are still very young. But it is also a situation that requires tact and discretion. It is that which has made me hesitate in accepting on your behalf."
He sighed.
"But in view of your difficult situation, I feel it is too great a chance for you to miss. I think that if you are careful and restrained, you should be able to negotiate any political difficulties which must be inherent in working for a ruler."
How like Michael the Dean sounded. Spoiling everything with warnings. It always worked, too. I was beginning to dread hearing the position's name.
"As it is, you will not be leaving the college, and thus you will have my guidance every step of the way." His face as he said this was half-turned toward Master John, as if reassuring him rather than me. Master John's mouth became even grimmer, and he turned and faced the window. The Dean's face was more earnest than usual.
"So, despite reservations, I urge you to accept this position. It is an opportunity to gain the notice and the gratitude of the powerful, and as such it may be the answer to our prayers."
"What is the position, sir?" I asked again.
The Dean looked uncomfortable.
"Guardian-mage to Madame Avignon. The Duke believes her to be in some kind of magical danger."
I stared at him openmouthed. Kitten Avignon. The most notorious whore on the Peninsula and the Duke of Gallia's openly acknowledged mistress.
Even Michael and I, living quietly in the Morian countryside, had heard of this scandalous woman and her liaison with the Duke. Rulers had mistresses and Gallian rulers had always