Mage's Blood by David Hair Page B

to learn from you.’ He made a lordly bow. ‘For myself, your name and memory will always be on my mind as we strike down the heathen.’
    Fyrell puffed up as the other Pure followed his lead, taking turns to praise and thank him.
    Alaron and Ramon slipped away, unnoticed.
    *
    ‘Malevorn
alwayth
doeth tha’. How do you ge’ an ego tha’ large into the room? An’ Fyrell panderth to him all the time. I am tho thick of thith plathe!’ Alaron was nursing a split lip from the fight he’d got into with Malevorn between classes. It stung, but neither he nor Ramon were very good at healing. Three days out from the end of classes and he felt totally miserable – of course he’d totally failed to lay a finger on Malevorn, as always. He was probably the most unsuccessful brawler in the school’s history. The younger students, most of them of the same ilk as Malevorn, openly laughed at him.
    He sat on the tiny balcony of the room they shared, Ramon beside him, looking glumly over the city as dusk fell. The air was cold, killing the smell of the refuse pits below this side of the building – of course the Pures were on the other side, the sunset side, overlooking the gardens. Each had a room four times the size of Alaron and Ramon’s.
    Alaron saw the mighty shapes in the sky first, the dark silhouettes in the northeastern quarter, three black dots that grew and grew. He pointed, and Ramon followed his finger.
    ‘Windships,’ Ramon breathed. ‘Merchant-traders, up from Verelon, maybe, or Pontus.’ His eyes shone. All boys dreamt of windships. They watched them grow in the sky, sails billowing as the trade wind swept them up from the Brekaellen Valley, following the river towards Norostein. The enchanted hulls were winged, painted and gilded in fantastical designs, the prows like eagles and serpents, the tall masts hung about with canvas sails. A scarlet flag billowed above. ‘From Pontus, I think.’
    They watched in silent awe as the ships swung into the Mooring Yards beneath Bekontor Hill. Windships had curved hulls to lessen wind-resistance, and retractable braces for landing. The enchanted hulls and keels kept them airborne, but though Air-gnosis gave the ships life, it was wind that provided propulsion. Air-thaumaturgy could shape the winds, and a ship that was well-guided by a strong Air-thaumaturge could even sail against the wind, but that took real skill and endurance.
    All of the trainee magi had learned to fly in small skiffs. Alaronwas barely competent, but Ramon had some genuine ability despite his weak mage-blood. Vann Mercer had always hoped that Alaron would be able to build and pilot a trading vessel for him, but Alaron’s prime elemental affinity had turned out to be fire and he had proven to be a very poor Air-mage. He was, he’d been told, better suited to a military career. The teachers also told him he had ability in sorcery, but sorcery scared him shitless. Ghosts and spirits … ugh!
    Ramon looked across at him. ‘Shouldn’t you be on your way to see Cym tonight? It’s your turn.’
    Alaron thought about that. His lip was still swollen, his jaw and ribs hurt and he felt totally depressed. But he knew a smile from Cym would lift his mood, though his chances of coaxing one from her would be nigh-on impossible. It was his turn, though …
    When Ramon had shown up at the college all those years ago he had brought with him a tiny self-possessed gypsy girl with big flashing eyes, cherry-red lips and cinnamon skin. Alaron had taken one look and fallen hopelessly in love. Her name was Cymbellea di Regia, Ramon said; she too was mage-born, but Saint Yvette’s, the girl’s Arcanum College of Norostein, would not take her in, so she was living in the Rimoni camp outside of town. Without their help she would never learn how to use her powers. Ramon said she’d run away from her mother, who was her mage-parent, which sounded terribly romantic to Alaron, and her plight offended his sense of justice, so