“Archmage, I can weave spells with excellent technique,” she said, channeling fine threads of fire into a complex formation. “I know the eighteen forms of Zhut So Tsi. I can cast spells of the eighth order of—”
“What is that to me?” The Ember’s voice dripped derision. “You speak like a noctomancer, all cold and damp, collecting spells and forms like a child pinning insects to a corkboard. We are of the sun! We cast from the heart!”
“I thought you told me I needed control!” snapped Laruna, weaves of pyromancy flaring around her fist as she pounded the table.
“You do. And the fact that you see casting from the heart and losing control as the same thing tells me that you are not ready.” The Ember’s voice was firm, but not unkind. “You need to learn life’s lessons before you wear the pyromancer’s robes.”
“Then teach me!”
“I cannot,” said the Ember. She cut off Laruna’s next demand with a wave of her hand. “Nobody can. You must discover some things for yourself.”
It wasn’t the denial that did it, Laruna reflected. She never really expected a mage like the Ember to train her, or to play matchmaker for an apprenticeship. It was the way she wasn’t allowed to speak, the quick dismissal of her thought before she was able to give it voice, that drove her over the edge of rage.
Fire suddenly wreathed Laruna as she leapt to her feet. “Enough riddles! Just tell me what the pyromancers want from me, or—!”
“I see that you are angry.” The Ember spoke levelly, neither without fury nor at the mercy of it. “That’s good. I am angry too. When your rage comes you wield the fire, Laruna Trullon, but who is wielding it in that case? You? Or your anger?”
The flames around Laruna billowed like a funeral pyre. “What are you talking about? You just said we’re both angry!”
“I am not my anger. I am the fire.” No sooner had the words left the old pyromancer’s lips than the flames around Laruna drained away. The younger woman’s fury remained, but all the heat, all the fire, all the magic sluiced from her grasp and pooled in the Ember of Heaven’s waiting palm, where it glowed as bright as a small sun.
Laruna stared in stunned silence at the brilliant light dancing in the Ember’s hand. Her anger still boiled, but the magic that usually accompanied it felt as distant as the far continents.
“And until you are the fire as well, you will not wear the pyromancer’s robes.” The old woman closed her palm, and the light winked out. “You do not need power, or technique. You need to master yourself. That is what holds you back.”
Laruna startled at the words, an old memory blooming in her mind. “What? Like personal growth?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Like an epiphany?” A small smile twisted the solamancer’s lips as a plan germinated and hope took root.
Now it was the Ember’s turn to look confused. “I suppose…”
“I can work with that,” said Laruna. “I know how to do personal growth.”
The Ember of Heaven leveled a hard stare at her. “I’m not sure you do.”
“I can. I know what I have to do,” said Laruna, now grinning ear to ear. Her mind raced as she scrambled to her feet; she’d need books, and arcane chalk, and she had to find Kaitha. The solamancer was so excited that she made it halfway to the door before she remembered proper protocol and turned back to the nonplussed Ember of Heaven. “Thank you, Archmage,” Laruna said, bowing as she backed out of the room. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“It is the very least I could do.” Jynn spoke every word with the precision and force of an assassin’s crossbow bolt. “You can be certain that I would like to do less, but the gods alone know how many more classes you might have disrupted if I didn’t agree to see you this morning.”
If Heraldin noticed the naked hostility in the archmage’s voice, he hid it well. “Right. Sure. You know, friend, I admire what you’ve accomplished in the last year. You’re really starting something special here. Great office, too. What is it you’re studying now?”
“The effects of low enchantments on probabilistic causation,” said Jynn.
“Sounds complicated! Maybe dangerous,” said the bard.
“There are certainly risks of unintended consequences,” muttered the omnimancer.
“Well, it’s amazing work. And what a fantastic office.” Heraldin waved a hand at the small room. Most of Jynn’s office was dominated by the large, ebony desk that the wizard sat behind, but the space that remained was lined with glass cases that brimmed with curios and oddities. There were seven gems in various colors set on a blue velvet backdrop. Strange creatures with too many legs and orifices hung suspended in jars of green fluid. One of them opened several of its eyes and stared at Heraldin as he leaned too close.
“Aha. And the eyeballs in a jar. Ha! Great! It’s hard to get over how well you’re doing,” the bard managed, working to keep up an optimistic front.
“Apparently,” said Jynn humorlessly.
“You’re probably wondering why I came calling,” asked the bard.
“I’m fairly certain it’s because I failed to place appropriate boundaries in an experimental prophecy,” said Jynn. “What I don’t know is why you think you came here.”
“A business opportunity.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to work at all.” The bard’s smile was implacable, but notes of desperation crept into his voice, and his eyes kept darting to the thing watching him from the jars. “No involvement whatsoever. I just need you to sign over the ballad rights for your part in our adventure—”
“Absolutely not,” Jynn said. “Anything else?”
“At least hear me out!” the bard pleaded.
“No,” said Jynn.
“Why not?” Heraldin’s voice cracked. The thing in the jar was starting to wave its legs.
“To begin with, I’ve heard you sing.”
Heraldin rolled his eyes. “Yes, fine, but with glamours and backup singers—”
