Arista was certain he implied more than he said, but she had neither the time nor the inclination to explore it further. Instead, she replied, “Perhaps if you straightened up a bit, you wouldn’t lose so many students.”

The wizard tilted his head. “I suppose you’re right, but where would be the fun in that?”

Arista stepped over the rabbit cage, around the large pestle and mortar, and stood before the desk on a closed cover of a book no less than three feet in height and two in width.

The lore master looked down at her feet, pursed his lips, and nodded his approval. “That’s Glenmorgan the Second’s biography, easily seven hundred years old.”

Arista looked alarmed.

“Not to worry, not to worry,” he told her, chuckling to himself. “It’s a terrible book written by church propagandists. The perfect platform for you to stand on, don’t you think?”

Arista opened her mouth, thought about what she was going to say, and then closed it again.

The wizard chuckled once more. “Ah yes, they’ve gone and made an ambassador out of you, haven’t they? You’ve learned to think before you speak. I suppose that’s good. Now tell me, what brings you to my office at this hour? If it’s about dinner, I apologize for the delay, but the stoves were out and I needed to fetch a boy to get them fired again. I also had to drag the cook away from a card game, which he wasn’t at all pleased about. But a meal is being prepared as we speak and I’ll have it brought up the moment it is finished.”

“It’s not that, Master—”

He put up a hand to stop her. “You are no longer a student here. You are a princess and Ambassador of Melengar. If you call me Arcadius, I won’t call you Your Highness, agreed?” The grin of his was just too infectious to fight. She nodded and smiled in return.

“Arcadius,” she began again, “I’ve had something on my mind and I’ve been meaning to visit you for some time, but so much has been happening. First there was Fanen’s funeral. Then, of course, Tomas arrived in Melengar.”

“Oh yes, the Wandering Deacon of Dahlgren. He came here as well, preaching that a young girl named Thrace is the Heir of Novron. He sounded very sincere. Even I was inclined to believe him.”

“A lot of people did and that’s part of the reason Melengar’s fate is so precarious now.”

Arista stopped. There was someone at the door—a pretty girl, perhaps six years old. Long dark hair spilled over her shoulders, and her hands were clasped together, holding a length of thin rope that she played with, spinning it in circles.

“Ah, there you are. Good,” the wizard told the girl, who stared apprehensively at Arista. “I was hoping you’d turn up soon. He’s starting to cause a fuss. It’s as if he can tell time.” Arcadius glanced at Arista. “Oh, forgive me. I neglected to introduce you. Arista, this is Mercy.”