Sciona was nodding—not just because she had promised Thomil she would play along—but because, on this, Bringham had a point about her. She had never given any indication that she cared about the well-being of others. As far as Bringham knew, she had no interest in people who couldn’t further her ambitions.
“Your devotion has always been to magic,” Bringham said again, his voice so soothing—because perhaps this was the voice he used with himself to get to sleep at night. “None of that has to change because you’ve uncovered a few skeletons.”
“Yes, sir,” Sciona answered from the void inside her, this vacuous space where an enthusiastic girl used to live. Because her ambition hadn’t come from a pure desire for power. Maybe, at its core, it was that, but the desire had come to her swaddled in a softer delusion: that her work would ultimately benefit others. It would help other girls avoid the obscurity she feared. It would improve the lives of working people like Alba and Aunt Winny and even their Kwen neighbors. Somewhere in her soul, Sciona had used that notion to justify all her selfishness. The belief that her work was good… That wasn’t something she could give up. Maybe Bringham and the others couldn’t give it up either. But unlike them, Sciona wouldn’t lie to herself, wouldn’t use God to ease her guilt when reason screamed otherwise.
Bringham smiled that proud smile that had always sparked such a glow in her and now fizzled in the dark. “I can’t tell you how many people warned me that a woman would be too soft for this revelation. Do not prove them right.”
“I won’t,” Sciona said, and with those words, a fresh determination flickered to life in the emptiness. It wasn’t a strong feeling; the hollow was too oppressive, and the first sparks wouldn’t catch on cold nothing. But it was the beginning of a conviction: she would not be soft, but nor would she be hard ice in the way that Bringham wanted. She was going to show Tiran something they had never seen before.
She was going to show them Hellfire.
Bringham saw something of the spark in her and chucked her under the chin.
“That’s my star pupil,” he said. “Just remember that there are girls all over the city looking up to you at this moment. For them, if no one else, let’s get through this next week, yes?”
“Yes, sir.” A week. Sciona had a week to prepare her next move. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me about this, Archmage. I realize that I’ve been difficult, and I’m sorry.”
“Difficult, my dear? Not at all! This must have been a terrible shock.” Bringham was still looking at her in concern, and Sciona realized that she needed to sell her part better. She couldn’t make her next moves with a worried eye on her. Bringham needed to believe she was the same driven, single-minded Sciona she had always been, that nothing had fundamentally changed.
“Yes, sir, but I feel better now that you’ve helped me understand. You’re right. My first loyalty is to magic. And who am I to question the will of God?”
“There’s a good girl.”
“I just…” Why not play the weak little woman for once if that was the quickest way out of this office? “Honestly, all of this has exhausted me, sir.”
“I’m sure,” Bringham said sympathetically.
“I wonder if I could have the rest of the week off? I think I need to take a few days to sort out my thoughts before I return to my lab.”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “And I’m sorry to trouble you with this when you’ve just gone through so much, but we have a loose end to tie up. Your Kwen assistant will have to be dismissed.”
Dismissed? Sciona didn’t let the alarm show on her face. “That seems unfair, sir. I brought this on him. The mistake was mine.”
“Of course, but if he chooses to be vocal outside the university, what he witnessed in your lab must never be believed. You’ll dismiss him on the grounds of mental instability.”
“But he wasn’t—”
“You must do this, Freynan. For his own good and the good of Tiran.”
“Right,” she said, realizing that this might not be the disaster it seemed. Perhaps it would be best if Thomil vanished from the Magistry’s gaze.
“I can arrange for a proper assistant to help you prepare for the presentation if you like?”
“No, thank you, sir. That’s not necessary.”
“If you’re sure you can finish without an assistant.”
Sciona wasn’t sure she could, but what she definitely couldn’t do was finish her work in her laboratory with the eyes of the Magistry on her. “Getting a new assistant caught up would take more time than it would be worth,” she said, “and you know me, Archmage. I’ve had the bulk of my material ready for days now.”
He seemed to buy the lie. “I bet you have. I just want to make sure you’ll be ready to present it before the Council.”
“Oh, I will be.”
The green jewel eyes of the Founding Mages flashed judgment through the mist as Sciona climbed the steps of the Main Magistry. She glared right back at them.
This is where we lay down our tools of logic and kneel before God, All-knowing.
Sciona figuratively chewed on the words as she physically chewed the inside of her cheek.
Maybe it made sense for Bringham to push the boundaries of magical knowledge only until he reached God and demurred before his superior. That was the canonized destiny of men like Derrith Bringham. They did what a man was supposed to: they revered and obeyed the men who had come before them, strove for greatness in the model of their predecessors, and, in the end, they were rewarded with power, acclaim, and dominion over lesser beings—a small godhood of their own. It was a tidy path for a highborn man like Bringham, but it didn’t apply to Sciona. After all, if she had done only what a girl was supposed to do until now, she would have no power, no acclaim. Only an obscure existence as the subject of someone else’s dominion. The path to God wasn’t laid for women like her. It was laid on their backs.
If there was a signpost where Sciona was supposed to lay down her tools and kneel—let herself be a stepping stone for someone else—she had passed it a long time ago. She had passed it over and over again by simply refusing to slow down for anyone. Why should Bringham be an exception?
Why should God Himself be an exception?
Sciona’s laboratory was not the mess she had left it. Some time during the past few days, an invisible Kwen janitor had cleaned it, top to bottom. The papers that had flurried to the floor had been carefully placed back on her desk. The spellograph Thomil had smashed against the wall was gone, scattered keys and all.
“Miss Freynan?” a voice said, and Sciona turned to find Jerrin Mordra in the hall behind her, a stack of notes clutched nervously to his chest. “I wanted to ask… are you alright?”
“What?” It might have been the first time one of Sciona’s co-workers had spoken to her kindly. Thrown off, she fumbled. “I mean—yes. Fine. H-how have you been?”
“I just wanted to let you know… Some of the things I’ve said to you… I didn’t mean any harm by them.”
“Right.” Sciona blinked and failed to remember what, in particular, Mordra the Tenth had said to her. Whatever barbs he was sorry for, they had been dull compared to Renthorn’s and fallen out of her head without leaving an impression.