Thankfully, my little party did not encounter any such horrors. There were no fantastic two-headed creatures or winged predators. The true wonders awaited me in Jornstad.

I was used to the hustle and bustle of a busy town, but Jornstad staggered my senses. During the day it was a swirl of color and sound like a perpetual carnival. Merchant and passenger caravans constantly came and went through the city's sturdy gates.

The main avenue was adorned with towering poplar trees and colorful banners, and it ran through the well-kept public gardens known as Rothchild Park. An exquisite marble fountain adorned Rothchild Park, where two stone lions wrestled amid the splashing water.

In the summer, short as it was, the park was alive with the buzzing of insects and flowers of a thousand hues. Musicians and theatrical performers sometimes offered free shows where crowds could enjoy a brief respite from the chill.

When the colder months came, and the trees had lost their leaves, the gardens were no less enchanting. The stillness wove a different kind of magic. It was a world of mute snows, punctuated only by the laughter of children building snowmen and throwing snowballs at each other.

Beyond the gardens was the huh of activity in Jornstad. Shops, pubs, and meeting houses lined both sides of the street. Tobacconists mingled with wizards, beggars, and sculptors. Preachers and blacksmiths walked alongside carpenters and scholars. Street performers with trained animals tried to impress passersby, as messengers rushed past delivering correspondence between businesses. The aroma of bread and fish cakes wafted through the air from the street vendors who were selling their wares to hungry travelers. It was a delightful mix of diversities.

My first introduction to Jornstad was an intoxicating experience. After attending the college for almost two years, I was at last beginning to feel comfortable with the city, and it was a place I was proud to call home.

The sun had just reached its zenith on a cold, cloudless day, and I was trying to work up the courage to ask Evara, the baker's daughter, to accompany me to the Snow Festival. I leaned on a tree some distance away, admiring her long blonde hair woven into a single braid. She'd enchanted me with her blue eyes and a teasing grin. I breathed deeply and prepared to make my move.

"My young Finroy, may I have your assistance?" a familiar voice called from behind me. I turned to see the schoolmaster, Jerod, a warm and affectionate man in his late fifties with hair as white as his smile.

He was kind to everyone, and I was his favorite. Rumor among the boys was that he was quite a warrior in his day, but I never really could believe it. His unassuming way made him an instant friend to one and all, and he seemed to know everyone in town.

"What is it?" I asked.

He breathed deeply, savoring the moment, I think.

"Duke Devareaux approached me this morning about finding a young man from the school for a special job in the royal court. I thought you might know someone from among the boys ready for such a challenge. He would have to be a bright boy with a hardy sense of adventure, able to think quickly on his feet."

I shrugged, deeply disappointed. Had I even been considered? "I'm not sure, sir," I answered. "Thaddeus, or Shaboo maybe? They're quite smart."

A broad smile broke through his weathered features.

"I recommended you," he said after a brief pause, shaking my hand. "Congratulations, Finroy. The job's yours if you want it."

After a stunned silence I regained my composure. In my excitement I almost forgot to ask, "What job is this, exactly?"

"Well, Duke Devareaux didn't say, but he's a very powerful man, and if he said it was an important job, you can bet it's the opportunity of a lifetime. He said you may even have a chance to work under Lord Rothchild himself!"

Lord Rothchild. The region had had many good years under his reign. Farmers and merchants alike prospered under his rule. Men idolized him. Ladies swooned for him. Every child emulated him.

Peace with Balduvia, uneasy as it was, had begun to take root. Food was plentiful. Everything was going well, and Lord Rothchild got all the credit.

During the fifth year of his reign, a popular movement began to immortalize his likeness on the currency. Everything was paid for in Rothies, which bore the inscription Lord Rothchild: Will of iron, tongue of silver, heart of gold. Rich traders donated money to erect larger-than-life statues of him in town squares. Competition broke out, as each wanted to be the sponsor of the largest, most beautiful statue. His face was everywhere.

Working for Lord Rothchild would be an amazing experience. Shoulder to shoulder with one of the greatest leaders alive, I could study his every move and see what made him shine. I was enormously flattered that Jerod would recommend me for such important work. Of course I would seize the opportunity.

But taking the position would mean leaving the college, and my studies were not yet completed. All would be for the best I thought, because they did not teach what I wanted most to learn. I was no wizard, but I was seeking to understand the meaning of white magic and the significance it has for all Kjeldorans. I knew only that it was our history, our present, and our future.

I got no sleep that night. The thought of meeting Lord Rothchild the next day had my mind racing in a million directions. The dormitory seemed too quiet.

There were none of the usual shenanigans of boys sneaking about after dark, playing cards or dice by candlelight. I wished there was something to distract me, but it seemed to be just me and the night.

The next day I woke early. Donning my finest raiment, I made my way to the palace. A gate guard ushered me inside to the sitting chamber, where I was to be interviewed. We made our way through the stone corridors to a lighted doorway.

My nerves were rattled to the edge of fear. I was to meet the man whom many insisted would someday rule all Terisiare. I swallowed hard and continued down the corridor.

As I approached the threshold, I heard two men talking. I could tell by the unmistakable smooth drawl that one of them was Lord Rothchild.

He began with a chuckle, "I really don't need a valet, you know. That's what I have you for."

"Milord," replied the other man, who could only have been Duke Devareaux. His voice was as crisp as a ringing bell, "As distracted as I am over affairs of state, I am unable to devote my time exclusively to you, as a man of your standing rightly deserves."

"Ah, well," sighed Rothchild, "just see that he doesn't get in the way."

"I'm sure Milord will find the boy most capable and trustworthy and in time grow to rely on him."

The conversation stopped abruptly as I entered the room. Lord Rothchild was stretched on a low couch, loosely clasping a goblet of mead. He had an easy, friendly manner and sipped the mead often. His sandy hair and sparkling, blue eyes complemented a pristine blue tunic that had likely never known a crease. A sly, lopsided grin spread across his boyish face.

To actually be in Lord Rothchild's presence was thrilling, and I felt a little dizzy at first. The man radiated charisma and seemed to be the embodiment of every noble trait.

He bade me to sit on a high stool in the center of the room, and the interview abruptly began.

The two quizzed me for almost two and a half hours. Lord Rothchild asked me simple task-related questions. Did I know how to read and write? Could I demonstrate my knowledge of courtly etiquette?

Devareaux contrived strange scenarios for me to work through. If Lord Rothchild spilled a spot of soup on his shirt and was unaware of it, how would I handle the situation? What was the proper thing to tell a foreign dignitary if Lord Rothchild was unavailable?