Tangled Yarn

Master Zaurett is fury, stygian death given form, and in truth, Gromph can't fault the master.  The usual red glow of his eyes has given way to a deathly teal, the necromancy in his veins given form and force.  Master Mizzrym has the gall to look indignant anyway, like he has no idea who he just pissed off.  He probably doesn't.  Mizzrym has never respected Davin Zaurett, the thin scion of a dead house, but he would if he had as much sense as vanity.

Gromph wishes Nalfein would hurry up and return with Thaezyr in tow.  Mizzrym has the good sense to behave when his plaything is in earshot, especially where Zaurett is involved.

Looking between the aptitude grades and Thaezyr's past transcripts paints a contradictory story.  True, Thaezyr has had hiccups in his grades, and he's hardly a model student, but he's never dropped below a 5 in Necromancy.  A 0 is plastered across the aptitude sheet, lower than even his pathetic 2 in divination.  Even then, none of these scores sit above 4 except transmutation, and even then it's a paltry 5.  He's grateful to the masters that brought this to his attention.

Zaurett considers Thaezyr a prized apprentice and Nalfein has already made his stance clear, but it's Jalynfein's voice among the confused masters that stands out.  Jalynfein teaches advanced divination and advanced scrying; Thaezyr was never going to be in either of his classes.  That said, something must've smelled rotten when he heard the boy had scored the lowest anyone had ever scored on the divination aptitude in three decades.

Jalynfein has declined to be at the meeting, but he doesn't need to be, Gromph can already tell something is wrong.

"He already turned in his precourse work," Zaurett notes as Gromph looks up.  "It's impeccable, better than any of his classmates.  How does a student who finished his last year with an 8 in Necromancy fail the aptitude exam for it?"

"By cheating, Master Zaurett," Mizzrym grins in a way Gromph dislikes.  "Or, perhaps, your standards have dropped in recent years.  Age does seem to plague you."

Zaurett's glare then could've killed Mizzrym, had there been magic behind it.

"Careful, Master Mizzrym," Gromph warns.  "These grades may be grounds for him to repeat the last half-decade; accusations like that may be grounds for expulsion, or worse."

Mizzrym doesn't seem bothered by that.  Gromph likes that less.

"He ought to be placed in intermediate classes for other schools," Mizzrym suggests, "and I'd also recommend keeping him off the Necromancy and Enchantment tracks entirely."

Enchantment, Mizzrym gave Thaezyr a 2 in Enchantment, despite his grades the previous year rounding out at a qualifying 6.  The low aptitude score is understandable in a vacuum.  Enchantment is a fine, difficult art, requiring an intense amount of concentration on every woven strand of weave.  Mizzrym's comment, however, has cast that grade into doubt.  Did Thaezyr really fail the test?  Or is Pharaun trying to scrub out the influence of other mages.

There's a firm rap at the door, drawing Gromph's gaze to it.

"Come in," he says, and Nalfein enters with Thaezyr in tow.  The apprentice is pale and shaking, clinging to Nalfein's arm like he's afraid someone will drag the older drow off.  He looks more afraid to see Mizzrym and Zaurett there.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Apprentice," Gromph says, turning back to the papers in front of him.  "There have been a few grade discrepancies I wanted to go over with you.  I'm also quite alarmed at the grades of your aptitude exam."

Thaezyr's face pales further, and he looks like he's going to throw up.

"So we're all on the same page, your final grades of last year would have qualified you for the four advanced classes required to enter your final decade in Sorcere.  You received a 6 in Enchantment and Illusion, a 7 in Transmutation, and an 8 in Necromancy."

Thaezyr nods, chewing his lower lip.

"You aptitude exam shows a very different story," Gromph continues.  "Now I can understand you scoring lower on Enchantment and Illusion, as you know, these schools are more difficult in practice than in theory, but you received a 0 in Necromancy.  This discrepancy could be grounds for expulsion.”

Thaezyr's expression drops even further, despair crawling over his face.  Mizzrym is trying to hide his delighted smirk, but Gromph can see it plainly.

"Masters Do'Urden and Zaurett have spoken on your behalf," Gromph adds.  "Both have stated to me, privately, that they believe this judgment is unfair and had expected you in their classes this coming year.  Master Zaurett has already praised the pre-work you turned in–early I might add."

Thaezyr nods rapidly.  He clearly wants to speak, but from the way he’s wringing his hands in front of him, his nerves are getting the better of him.  Gromph glances at Nalfein, who pulls his lips into a line.

“Master Mizzrym, on the other hand, vouches for his own judgment, and recommends you repeat the last five-year cycle,” Gromph adds, “he also recommends you be deemed ineligible for future classes in Necromancy and Enchantment.”

Thaezyr’s gaze drifts slowly to Mizzrym, the idiot still trying desperately to hide his grin.  The apprentice’s expression is darkly familiar, and Gromph finds his gaze once more on Nalfein.  His former apprentice looks more than uncomfortable.

“I have looked over your coursework from the past semester,” Gromph continues.  “I can vouch, at least, for your theoretical knowledge.  You lack the qualifying grades for Advanced courses in Abjuration, Divination, Evocation, or Conjuration, so I will not ask you to demonstrate your practical abilities in those fields.  However, I would like to see the other four, at least.  Do you think you can do that with limited preparation?”

Thaezyr gives a frantic, low bow.

“Yes, Master Baenre,” his voice is a wavering whisper.

“Good,” Gromph stands.  “Follow me, Apprentice, and you three, if you could come with me to observe.”

Nalfein nods, as does Zaurett.  Mizzrym has gone a strange shade of green, and Gromph senses he’s caught the arrogant cad in a rather poorly wrought web.  Gromph leads the four into a small, private atrium, a construct settled in the center used to gauge a spell’s power.  Gromph beckons Thaezyr forwards, and the boy stumbles closer to the construct.  He’s shaking, terrified, but Gromph reminds himself to be objective.

“We’ll begin with Enchantment.” Gromph says, taking a place beside Nalfein, “Confusion should be a suitable gauge.”

Thaezyr nods, pulling three walnut shells from his pocket and clenching them in each fist before beginning the passes.  The arcane words stumble off his tongue a bit, but not enough for the spell to fail.  The constructs eyes light up yellow, and Gromph gives an acknowledging nod Thaezyr cannot see.  The construct's glow holds for a moment, barely half a minute before the spell collapses.  Certainly worth more than a 2, but clearly Thaezyr's practical skills are lacking.

Gromph taps a curled index finger against his lips to signal Nalfein.

You saw that?  Right? he signs to his former apprentice.  Nalfein nods.

The Weave is fighting him , Nalfein signs back.

Indeed, the strands of Weave around Thaezyr seem to refuse him entry, forcing the poor boy to claw every shred of power and control from it.  Gromph has never seen this phenomenon–in a novice wizard.

Gromph plucks an arcane eye from the Weave, quickly and subtly, before continuing.

"You've learned the more advanced invisibility passes, correct?" Gromph asks, and Thaezyr tenses strangely.

"Yes, Master Baenre," the boy whispers.

"If you would," Gromph says.

Thaezyr's shaking hands move through the passes, but he stumbles too harshly over the last word, and the spell fails.

"Again," Gromph prompts.

"The spell failed," Mizzrym cuts in.  "It did the same during my aptitude exam–"

"Then why did you give him a 3?" Gromph asks coldly, not meeting the arrogant drow's gaze.  Mizzrym opens his mouth to protest, but quickly snaps it back shut.  "Apprentice Thaezyr, you have three chances to successfully execute the spell.  I would expect nervousness, with so much on the line.  Try again."

Thaezyr nods and takes a deep breath, mouthing the incantation to himself first, then starting the cast once more.  Again the Weave seems to fight him, but a coil of Inner Weave forces the Weave apart.  As it does, the coil unwinds a little bit more, tangling in the Weave.  Gromph doesn't like how much the coils of Inner Weave have already unwound.

The construct vanishes regardless, and even a couple of blithely cast force missiles fail to make it reappear.  The casting was strong, solid.  Gromph nods, even though Thaezyr isn't looking at him.

Thaezyr's polymorph goes significantly better, the Weave doesn't fight him nearly as much.  There's real talent there, behind the visible toll fighting the Weave like this is taking.

Necromancy comes last, a blight spell that the Weave parts for too easily.  Gromph narrows his eyes and watches the spell form, watches it cling to the Weave like a tumor for the moment it sits on the construct.  It is perfectly cast, but it makes Gromph's skin crawl.

Something is very, very wrong with Thaezyr's magic.  Inner Weave naturally coils tightly, fluidly trading with the surrounding Weave in arcane threads.  Wizards usually have controlled Inner Weaves, forming patterns that match their preferred school and general personality.  Nalfein’s Weave dances like twisting vines, Mizzrym’s snakes about in intricate webs, and Zaurett’s flows like a river, all bends and turns.  Thaezyr’s, on the other hand seems a bit like a tangle of yarn twisting about itself like a rat king.  Even novices seem to have the beginnings of a pattern by this point.

"Well done," Zaurett's voice is warmer than Gromph has heard it in centuries, and Thaezyr seems to grow a little taller when he hears it.

"Indeed," Gromph pushes down his concerns, for the moment.  "It seems your aptitude test was unfairly graded."  Gromph casts Mizzrym a withering glare, one the scowling master shrinks under.  "I am satisfied with these results.  Apprentice Thaezyr."

Thaezyr turns and jumps to attention with his head bowed.  Gromph fights a sigh, but doesn't correct the nervous apprentice.

"You will be placed in the advanced classes for Enchantment, Illusion, Necromancy, and Transmutation, as well as Advanced Arcane Theory," Gromph says.  "I will keep a close eye on Master Mizzrym's courses and ensure no further grade tampering occurs.  I should hope after this event, Master Mizzrym, you will keep personal matters out of your grading.  I can always give the aptitude exam myself, if you cannot be objective."

"Your point has been made perspicuously apparent, Master Baenre," Mizzrym answers, nearly under his breath.

"You three are dismissed," Gromph says to the Masters.  "Master Do'Urden, I believe you have a tome in your library I require.  I will send Apprentice Thaezyr for it when I am done speaking with him."

Nalfein gives a solemn nod, and Thaezyr tenses a little more.  He looks on the verge of tears, and Gromph remembers Nalfein once standing in this atrium, looking very similar.  He's more amenable to the comparison than he'd like to be.

The three Masters filter out, Zaurett offering Thaezyr small, encouraging nod as he departs.  When Mizzrym is through the far door, and it's shut, Gromph sets a warding seal on the door through Kyorli and turns to to Thaezyr.

"This is not a disciplinary meeting, Apprentice," he says softly, "you may relax."

Thaezyr's shoulders slump, and he's still fighting tears.  "I'm sorry," he says quickly, and out of turn.  "Master Mizzrym and I fought a few weeks ago and–"

"That is not an excuse on his part," Gromph interrupts.  "Master Mizzrym is nearly four centuries old, and the behavior he displayed does not befit a Master of Sorcere.  It nearly cost you much more than your place at Sorcere.  Do you understand?"

"Please don't throw him out!" Thaezyr blurts out, again out of turn.  His face is awash with panic.

"If I dismissed every Master of Sorcere that broke conduct over an apprentice, I would have to dismiss myself, Apprentice Thaezyr.  I want to ensure you understand this was not your fault."

Thaezyr nods slowly, his head lowering.

"Come with me," Gromph says.  "It may be best if you're sitting for the rest of our discussion."

Thaezyr nods and follows Gromph to his office, settling in one of the reading chairs at the archmage's behest.

"Do you find casting difficult?" Gromph asks.  "As if the Weave is a hard stone wall you must claw at?"

Thaezyr waffles for a moment, trying to come up with excuses.  He's often tired, those schools of magic aren't his area of expertise, his classmates distract him, Gromph holds up a hand.

"Let me ask a different question, have you ever cast a spell, of any kind, that was far above your skill level?"

Thaezyr shakes his head.

"Please be honest with me, Apprentice Thaezyr, your connection to the Weave may be in danger, as may your life.  You cannot graduate Sorcere if you cannot cast any spells, and you certainly cannot graduate dead."

Thaezyr pales, but nods slowly.  "I may have performed a…necromancy ritual of some sort before my time at Sorcere."

"Alone?"

"Yes, Master Baenre.  Is that bad?"

"Ill-advised, but not bad, no.  There are some spells, more powerful spells, that can affect our connection to the Weave if our fundamentals slip.  It's uncommon, but I have seen it happen.  Without any fundamentals to fall back on, you may have tangled the Weave around and in you.  It is probably why you struggle so much with schools that rely heavily on the Weave, like Conjuration and Divination, and why you struggle to concentrate when you do make connections.  I will not mince words: this can kill you, if your Inner Weave unravels incorrectly.  You will literally decompose where you stand."

Thaezyr's eyes go wide, and he looks like he might faint.  The poor boy is little more than skin and bones; Gromph doubts he's eaten today either.

"But–but–" he begins, stuttering, his chest heaving.  He pulls his knees up and his eyes dart about.  Each hyperventilating breath comes with a whine.

"This is not a permanent condition," Gromph amends, trying to placate the boy.  "But, it will take time and care to undo the damage.  That is why I am telling you."

"At what price?" Thaezyr asks, there's little thought behind his words and much more instinct.  Not that it's a bad instinct, but it is apparent.

"Normally, I would give you a task," Gromph concedes, "but I'm not the one who will be helping you, Master Do'Urden will."

"And what's his price?"

Nothing , Gromph thinks but does not say.  Nalfein isn't the type to hold a child's life over their head, and he's clearly fond of Thaezyr, for reasons beyond the archmage.

"That's up to him," Gromph answers instead.  "He'll be waiting for you in his office.  Once you've gathered your bearings, you are dismissed."

It takes Apprentice Thaezyr a few minutes, but eventually he gets to his feet and hurries out, face flushed.  Gromph settles at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He needs to stop being soft for Nalfein's sake.  It will be the death of him, from stress if nothing else.

Nalfein is a side kitchenette when someone knocks on his tower door.  He flicks the warding glyph off the zurkhwood absently.

"Come in," he calls.

The door creaks as it opens, and Vizaeth Thaezyr peers in, then slowly enters fully.  Nalfein glances around the frosted glass screen hiding the kitchenette from the rest of the office and offers the boy a smile.

"Go ahead and sit," he says.  "Doesn't matter where."

Vizaeth slowly perches in a high-backed reading chair, curling in like Drizzt does when he's nervous.  Nalfein doesn't blame him.  The study is very unlike the imposing rooms of his peers.  It remains dimly lit, adorned with darkly stained furniture and an abundance of spider motifs, but Nalfein had replaced the demons and skulls when he arrived.  Yellow musk creepers and assassin vines coil up the sides of his desk in intricate carvings, the sky blue upholstery of the reading chairs is stitched with repeating patterns of bicolor masks and clustered flowers, darklings dance along the carved reliefs of the high bookshelves and cabinets, and–in Nalfein’s favorite achievement of magic–the spiderweb ceiling swirls with stars.

Nalfein steps out from behind the screen, carrying a tray holding a fine tea set, painted with spider lilies.  He sets it on the table in front of Vizaeth and sits in the chair across from him, legs crossed.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Vizaeth shrugs, eyeing the tea set with narrowed eyes.

“It’s a surface tea, chamomile,” Nalfein clarifies.  “It’s calming.  Trust me, it will help.”

“I’m dying,” Vizaeth whispers.

“But your fate isn’t sealed,” Nalfein reminds him.  “That’s why I’m here.”

“For what price?”

Vizaeth glares across at Nalfein, who sighs and leans back.

“You pay the price by treating your affliction,” he answers.  “I require nothing else.”

“No,” Vizaeth snaps, “No, you want something else.  You wouldn’t be offering to help if you didn’t want something in return.”

“Apprentice Thaezyr,” Nalfein begins, but Vizaeth bolts up onto unsteady feet.  Tears begin to track down his face, and his teeth clench so hard Nalfein wonders if they might crack.  His left knee wobbles, as if the leg is wounded.  Nalfein’s seen that before, when Zaknafein took an arrow to his thigh.

“I’m not here to be some pawn in your power play against Pharaun!” Vizaeth shouts.  “I’m not an idiot, I know you look down on me.  You can’t bat your eyes and get me to cave!  I don’t care how perfect you are!”

“This isn’t about Pharaun,” Nalfein says firmly.

“I heard you badmouthing him,” Vizaeth snaps.  “‘A good teacher does not an archmage make.’  You don’t need me to tear him down; the archmage already hates him.”

“After the stunt he pulled today, can you blame him?”

“He had his reasons!  You don’t know him!”

“I attended classes with him for fifty years.  I know him a lot better than you do.”

“Bullshit!  You just hate that he’s better than you!”

“Vizaeth.”

Nalfein feels like his  mother again, the cold tone like a familiar poison, but the boy falls silent, seething.  A moment of silence passes, then another.  Nalfein stands then, and walks over to stand before Vizaeth.  He lifts Vizaeth’s hands and turns the palms to face the ceiling, then places his own, palms-up, in his.

“What do you see?” he asks.  Vizaeth stares down at Nalfein’s hands, brow knit.  Wordlessly, Nalfein flips them palm-down and whistles through his teeth to banish the illusion over them.  Patches of paler skin mark Nalfein’s hands, where blisters formed and burst.  Vizaeth’s eyes widen, and his grip tightens on Nalfein’s hands.

“When I was in your year, I miscast my transmutation spell during the aptitude test, and created a burst of steam, right in my hands,” Nalfein flips his hands to face palm up, showing similar scars on the other side.  “I got a 1, and the master administering the exam made three boys get a tub of ice water to plunge my hands into while they fetched a Mistress from Arach-Tinilith.”

“You struggle with Transmutation?” Vizaeth knits his brow, as if he doesn’t believe it.

“And Abjuration,” Nalfein admits.  “I’ve gotten a lot of practice, but that comes with time and effort.  You won’t become great overnight.”

“But,” Vizaeth’s grip tightens more, “but something is actually wrong with me, right?”

“An accidental tangle,” Nalfein promises.  “One that can be undone.  You are not broken forever."

Vizaeth stares down at Nalfein's hands, at the scars covering them.  "Why are you helping me?" he asks, a tinge to his voice that sounds like a sob.

"Because I am very aware of what it's like to sit in those classrooms, walk these hallways, stand in front of the Masters and feel like nothing," Nalfein says softly.  "And I know how easy it is to cling to scraps of attention, to give up every part of who you are, because you think someone sees you.  I meant what I said; you could be something really special, Vizaeth, but you don’t reach those heights by chasing someone else’s desires.  What do you want, Vizaeth?”

Vizaeth keeps staring at Nalfein’s hands, and finally he shrugs.

“I don’t know?” he admits, tears coming down his face again.  “I just want to be me.”

Nalfein smiles faintly, “I can’t tell you who that is.  That’s for you to decide, but you know something?  The first time I think I saw the Vizaeth you want to be, he was standing in front of a Netherese longsword, proud of his own skills.”

Vizaeth’s lip starts to wobble, his knees buckle, and Nalfein catches him as the boy collapses into a fit of sobs.  Nalfein gently lowers Vizaeth to the ground and lets him cry into his chest, arms clasped together in Nalfein’s lap.  Nalfein sits quietly until he feels heat on his hand, and glances down to find a fresh line of blood blooming from Vizaeth’s wrist.

“Hey, hey,” Nalfein pulls Vizaeth’s arms apart gently.  “It’s okay.  We’re okay.  Breathe with me.”

Nalfein inhales for four beats he taps into Vizaeth’s palm, then exhales for two, then repeats.  After a moment, Vizaeth is following him, breaths shaky and thick with tears.  Nalfein holds his thumb to the small wound and presses hard.  Vizaeth gives a soft hiss of pain, but allows it.

“I have a friend who used to box his ears every time he stumbled over a prayer,” Nalfein notes.  “And my stepfather used to drink until he didn’t hurt anymore, but you know something?  Once their heads stopped pounding, the ache here didn’t go away,” Nalfein taps Vizaeth’s chest.  “And I know, you’re hurt, and angry, but making yourself hurt out here,” Nalfein wipes the blood from the cut, “That’s not going to do anything.”

Vizaeth takes another deep, shuddering breath, but doesn’t say anything.  He just curls closer to Nalfein and grips his hand tightly.  Nalfein flicks his free hand to dim the moon lamps scattered about the room and takes a deep breath of his own.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.  Vizaeth shakes his head.  “Can I coax you to eat regardless?” Nalfein asks.  Vizaeth nods.  “If you ever need to talk, my door is usually open.  Just make sure you knock first.”

“Could I…stay here?” Vizaeth asks.  “I don’t–”

“I have another room,” Nalfein reassures the boy before he finishes.  “A drawback of being the eldest of five is that you always have one sibling or another sleeping at your place.”

Vizaeth lets out a snort as Nalfein helps him to his feet.  He still looks ragged, and hurt, but it seems like a good cry did a bit of good for the young apprentice.  Nalfein leads Vizaeth to his guest room.  He keeps quiet now.  If Vizaeth has anything else to say, Nalfein doesn’t want to pry it out of him.  He doesn’t speak, though, as if he is in desperate need of just a little quiet.

For once, the silence is not tension.