Trudi Canavan - The Novice

“Thanks,” Sonea offered. He shrugged and strode away.

Kitchen duty. Sonea sighed. It had been stiflingly hot all day, and she had been looking forward to a cool bath before the evening meal. Chores given to novices weren’t likely to be distasteful or time-consuming, however, so she might still have time.

Hurrying down the spiral stairs to the ground floor, she let the smell of cooking guide her to the Foodhall. Inside, the room was busy and seats were filling quickly as more novices arrived. She followed one of the tray-carrying servants into the kitchen and found herself in a large room lined with long benches. Steam curled up from boiling tubs, meat sizzled on grills, and the air was filled with the clatter of metal on metal. Servants hurried about, calling to each other over the noise.

Sonea stopped inside the door, overwhelmed by the chaos and the aromas. A young woman looked up from stirring a pot. She stared at Sonea, then turned and called out to another, older woman wearing a large white shirt. As the older woman saw Sonea, she left her pot, approached Sonea and bowed.

“How may I help you, my lady?”

“Kitchen duty,” Sonea shrugged. “They tell me I have to help out.”

The woman stared at her. “ Kitchen duty?”

“Yes.” Sonea smiled. “Well, here I am. Where do I start?”

“Novices never come in here,” the woman told her. “There’s no kitchen duty.”

“But—” The words died in Sonea’s throat. She scowled as she realized she’d been tricked. As if the sons and daughters of the Houses would ever be expected to work in a kitchen! The woman eyed Sonea warily.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Sonea sighed. “I think I’ve just fallen for a joke.”

An explosive giggle broke through the noise. The woman looked around Sonea’s shoulder and her eyebrows rose. Sonea turned, a sick feeling growing inside. Filling the doorway were five familiar faces, their mouths stretched into ugly grins. As Sonea looked at them, the novices burst into uncontrolled laughter.

The noise in the kitchen subsided, and she realized that several of the servants had paused to see what was happening. Heat rushed to her face. She gritted her teeth and stepped toward the door.

“Oh, no. You’re not leaving,” Regin declared. “You can stay in here with the servants, where you belong. But, now I consider it, that’s not right. Even servants are better than slum dwellers.” He turned to the kitchen woman. “I’d watch out if I were you. She’s a thief—and she’ll admit it if you ask. I’d watch she doesn’t sneak off with one of your knives, then stab you in the back when you’re not looking.”

With that he reached for the door handle and pulled it closed. Sonea strode over and twisted the handle, but while it turned easily, the door would not open. A faint vibration stirred the air about her hand.

Magic? How could they be using magic? None of them had passed the Second Level yet.

Behind the door she could hear giggles and muffled comments. She recognized Alend’s voice, and Issle’s laugh was unmistakable. As she noted Vallon and Kano’s laughter, she realized that the only voice she wasn’t hearing was Regin’s.

Which was probably because he was concentrating hard on holding the door closed with magic. Her heart sank as she realized what this meant. Regin had already mastered the Second Level and more. He could not only access and draw on his power, but had learned how to use it. Rothen had warned her that some novices might achieve this quickly, but why did it have to be Regin?

Remembering the months she had spent playing and practicing magic, she smiled grimly. He still had a long way to go. She stepped back and regarded the door. Could she combat his magic? Probably, but she might destroy the door. She turned to the kitchen woman.

“There must be another way out of here. Would you show me out?”

The woman hesitated. Her expression held no sympathy anymore, just suspicion. The sick feeling inside Sonea turned into anger.

“Well?” she snapped.

The woman’s eyes widened, then her gaze dropped to the floor.

“Yes, my lady. Follow me.”

Gesturing for Sonea to follow, the woman wove her way through the benches. The kitchen servants stared at Sonea as she passed, but she kept her eyes on the woman’s back. They entered a storeroom even larger than the kitchen, filled with shelves stacked high with food and utensils. At the far end of the storeroom, the woman stopped at another door, opened it and gestured wordlessly at the corridor beyond.

“Thank you,” Sonea said, then stepped out of the room. The door closed firmly behind her. She looked up and down the corridor. It was unfamiliar, but it had to lead somewhere. She sighed, shook her head and started walking.

Evenings in the Night Room were not as interesting as they used to be, Rothen mused. Where once he had half dreaded attending the weekly social gathering for the rush of questions he was subjected to about the mysterious slum girl, now he found himself ignored.

“That Elyne girl will need watching,” a female voice said from across the room. “From what Lady Kinla said, it won’t be long before she needs a private talk with a Healer.”

The reply was inaudible.

“Bina? Perhaps. Or do you mean...? No. Who would want to? Leave it to Rothen.”

Hearing his name, Rothen searched for the speakers. He found two young Healer women standing by a window nearby. One glanced up and, seeing him watching, blushed and looked away.

“There’s something strange about her. It’s something...” Recognizing this new voice, Rothen felt a thrill of triumph. The speaker was Lord Elben, one of Sonea’s teachers. Louder, closer conversations in the room threatened to overwhelm the voice, but Rothen closed his eyes and concentrated as Dannyl had taught him to.

“She doesn’t fit in,” a wavering voice replied. “But who really expected her to?”

Rothen frowned. The second speaker was the history teacher for the First Year novices.

“It’s more than that, Skoran,” Elben insisted. “She’s too quiet. She doesn’t even talk to the other novices.”

“They don’t like her much, either, do they?”

A wry laugh. “No, who can blame them?”

“Think of Lord Rothen,” Skoran said. “The poor man. Do you think he knew what he was getting into? I wouldn’t want her coming back to my rooms every night. Garrel was telling me that she spun some tale about knifing a man when she lived in the slums. I wouldn’t want a little murderess lurking around my rooms while I was asleep.”

“Charming! I hope Rothen keeps his door locked during the night, in that case.”

The voices faded as the pair moved away. Rothen opened his eyes again and looked down at his glass of wine. Dannyl had been right. This chair was in a good position for listening to other magicians’ conversations. Dannyl had always said that the regular Night Room attendees were too eager to express their opinions to check who might be listening, and much could be learned from them.

Unlike Dannyl, however, Rothen felt uncomfortable spying on his fellow magicians. He rose and located Skoran and Elben. Forcing a polite smile, he approached the pair.

“Good evening, Lord Elben,” he said, inclining his head in greeting. “Lord Skoran.”

“Lord Rothen,” they replied, nodding politely in return.

“I just came to ask how my little thief is going?”

The two teachers paused, their faces blank with surprise, then Elben laughed nervously.

“She’s doing well,” he said. “In fact she’s doing rather better than I expected. She learns fast and her control over her powers is quite... advanced.”

“She had many months in which to practice, and we haven’t really tested her strength yet,” Skoran added.