“Oh, you must be Sciona Freynan!” Her emerald eyes were all atwinkle as though she’d just seen a unicorn. “You and your friend can go on through to the antechamber. And good luck!”
The gossip mill had been at work within the Magistry if even the first-floor secretary knew there was a female applicant taking on the exam this year; the Council was usually secretive about who they were considering.
The way the secretary raised her fist in encouragement made Sciona wonder if she had been at that desk the last time a hopeful woman passed these doors to break on the challenges beyond. Perhaps, she herself had once dreamed of the High Magistry but had let those dreams go at some point in her career, succumbing to the pressures of tradition and practicality.
Stop that, Sciona, the voice of reason warned. You’re spinning worst-case scenarios where they don’t exist.
But was she? How unreasonable was it to expect failure where no woman had ever succeeded? Realistically, Sciona’s purpose was to fail here. Realistically, her future would be the same as that secretary’s—trapped behind a tiny desk, serving her male superiors until her quick hands slowed and her mind rotted from idleness. Could Sciona live that sort of future? Could she bear it?
Her steps slowed as she reached the antechamber, which was already half-full of purple-robed applicants and their male relatives. These men all belonged to good families. Old magic. Old money. They were the ones meant to succeed here, while Sciona was meant to backslide neatly into her predestined position. Secretary. Assistant. Wife. The shadowy truth had been gnawing at the edges of Sciona’s consciousness for weeks. It swelled now, darkening the way ahead. There was no life beyond this exam. If she didn’t pass, she couldn’t go on living. And yet, how could she pass?
Existential terror seized Sciona, swarming her vision with blackness. The blurring floor was rushing up to meet her—when a swish of white drove back the dark like Leon before the Horde.
Archmage Derrith Bringham.
Sciona stumbled, found her feet, and looked up at her mentor. The archmage was in full regalia, gold ropes of distinction hanging from the shoulders of his white robes. Holy light.
“Ah, there she is!” he beamed, arms outstretched. “My soon-to-be highmage, Miss Freynan! And Miss Livian, delightful to see you.”
“Y-you remember me, Archmage?” Now, it seemed that Alba might be the one to faint.
“Miss Freynan’s lovely cousin? How could I forget?”
Alba flushed pink beneath her freckles like she was a schoolgirl. Maybe it was just that men didn’t often call Alba lovely; she was on the tall side for a woman, with a squarish jaw and more muscle in her arms than most men liked. Bringham simply had a gift for telling people what they needed to hear.
“Chin up now, child.” The archmage turned back to Sciona. “They’re going to want to see a little confidence.”
“Alright,” Sciona breathed. Just not too much confidence, she thought, or the testers would think her arrogant. Half of Tiran probably thought it arrogant for a woman to attempt the exam at all.
“You look ill, Miss Freynan. Are you going to lose your breakfast?”
Maybe. Sciona shook her head. “It’s just nerves, sir. I’m fine.”
“Since when is Sciona Freynan nervous for any test?”
“I…”
“Since when is she afraid of a challenge?”
“I don’t know.” Since the roadmap had vanished.
All obstacles to this point had been within Sciona’s control—conquerable with deep thought and hard work. Earning an advanced degree in sourcing had been hard, but other women had done it before. Working as an archmage’s assistant had been grueling, but students younger than Sciona had done it before. There was precedent. Highmagehood was the first mark that seemed out of reach, no matter how perfectly Sciona performed.
“Freynan,” Bringham’s voice brought her firmly back to the present. “Listen to me. This is a task like any other. It is within your power.”
Of course, Bringham had the right words. Whether they were true was a different matter.
“No nerves, now,” he said as if it were that simple. “We both know nothing can stop you once you get your teeth into a spell. Just wait. My fellow archmages are going to eat their words about you.”
“There were words about me?” Sciona said, wishing the thought didn’t make her quite so queasy.
“They’re paying attention. For the purposes of this exam, that’s a good thing.”
“Is it?”
“It can be. But you shouldn’t bother yourself about that. Let me worry about the other archmages. You just focus on giving the usual Freynan over-performance, yes?”
And, Feryn, Sciona wanted to be worthy of the confidence in his smile. Archmage Bringham had staked his credibility on her when he pushed so hard to have her application considered. If she fell short today, she wouldn’t just be ruining opportunities for other women. She would be damaging Bringham’s reputation—after everything he had done for her.
“I’ll try not to disappoint you.”
“Not possible,” he said. “Now, I should get back to the other archmages. As always, we have a great deal of needless last-minute squabbling over the particulars of the exam. You’ll want to be in there soon, too, Freynan.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I get the feeling you’ll be less nervous after you take stock of the competition.” He winked and turned in the direction of Leon’s Hall.
“Alright.” Sciona gave Alba’s hand a last squeeze. “I guess I’ll see you on the other side.”
“I’ll be right here when you’re done,” said Alba.
“Oh, Miss Livian.” Bringham turned back to the two women. “Wouldn’t you like to watch?”
“Watch?”
“Applicants often bring fathers and brothers to their examinations, and you’re Miss Freynan’s family, aren’t you?”
“Yes…” Alba said, “but women don’t usually go in, do they?”
“There’s no law against it. And the exception has already been made”—Bringham inclined his head toward Sciona—“so what’s the harm?”
Through the next set of doors, Leon’s Hall told a story in three parts. Tiran’s future sat on the crescent of tiered benches along one side of the chamber: purple-robed research mages like Sciona, hoping to join the ranks of the city’s highest innovators. Opposite them sat Tiran’s present in the form of the white-robed archmages of the Council. And the soaring dome above depicted Tiran’s past, rendering all the living small by its glory.
There was Archmage Leon bringing the founding texts down from the highest peak of the Venhold Mountains, then another depiction of him with his staff held aloft to banish the Horde of Thousands from the Tiran Basin. There was copper-haired Archmage Stravos erecting the barrier that had saved civilization from the foretold Blight. There was Faene the First as a young mage, transcribing the Leonid at Archmage Leon’s feet, then as a wizened elder, composing the Tirasid. There was Mordra the Second at his forge inventing steel.
Sciona normally would have paused to admire the magnitude of the history on display and contemplate her place in it. But the moment she entered, her consciousness sucked inward in self-defense, making the rest of the world fuzzy. She barely felt herself sit on the bench between Alba and another examinee. The purple-robed man looked younger than Sciona—maybe twenty-four? The casually expensive shirt and waistcoat beneath his robes said that he came from money, but he was the only applicant in the chamber who didn’t have a single relative with him.