In the distance, beyond the colors, Dwyrin heard the voice of the crane shouting, but he could not make out what it was saying. His self was slipping away, peeled back layer by layer by the great shining eye. Dwyrin began to feel an overbearing fear. He would be nothing, his mind shouted, nothing] He would be stripped away and there would be oblivion, no Dwyrin left at all.

/ am not ruled by fear, he thought, and began to chant the meditation of centering and mind-clearing that they had learned in the school. As he did, the fires in his hands and feet began to burn again, and he faltered, but picked up again. The voice of Ahmet, as from a far place, echoed in himself. A mind that is free from fear has all power over all things. The fires burned hotter and Dwyrin despaired, but now the fires drew the swirling light and color into him. His heart leapt and he passed into the meditation of the First Opening of Hermes, that which allowed the students to perceive the dim outlines of the true world.

His body was formed of flame, bright as a star, and the uncoiling thing within him now swirled up his spine and into his head. There was a tearing sensation and Dwyrin felt his forehead, wrapped in flame and light and color, burst open. A golden radiance filled him and the room of the throne. The giant king lowered the scepter and all dissolved into formless chaos, riven with darkness and nothingness.

Dwyrin felt his knees strike a cold stone floor and his arms, strengthless, tumbled before him. His body was shaking. Two strong arms seized him and bore him up. He was clasped to a warm chest and dark scented hair fell about him. Dwyrin sobbed and buried his head in the shoulder of the man. Tears streamed from his face.

“Hush now, lad, you’ll be fine,”“ the crane said with the voice of Ahmet, holding him fiercely close. The crane-man rose from the darkened floor, carrying the boy, and retraced his steps through the winding tunnels and passages of the labyrinth.

Ra was full in the sky when Ahmet returned to the garden gate, nudging it open with his foot. The raiment of the crane guide he had returned to its sandal wood chest in the chambers overlooking the city of gold. Dwyrin slept, exhausted, in his arms. Now the morning silence was broken by the clatter of the cooks, the chanting of the novices and their masters in the temple. Unnoticed, the young master strode up the long steps from the garden and into the shadowed passage that led to the master’s quarters. His own small cell was lit with dim cool light as he entered. He laid the Hibernian boy on his narrow cot and spread the thin quilt over him. Dwyrin remained deeply asleep. Ahmet looked down upon him with a sad, drawn expression on his face. Shaking his head to clear dark thoughts, Ahmet closed the door and strode off toward the kitchens. Breakfast would be late.

Ahmet sat alone in the long hall that served as the refectory for the masters. The tables were bare and empty, some still gleaming with water from their cleaning after breakfast. He had convinced the cooks to give him a bowl of porridge with figs. An earthenware mug of water stood at his left hand. He spooned the meal, sweetened with honey, into his mouth.

“The boy lives,” came a voice from behind him. Ahmet nodded, continuing to eat. There was a shuffling and the creak of the bench as the headmaster sat down next to him.

Ahmet could feel the eyes of the old man upon him. He did not turn, draining the mug of water.

“He will sleep two, maybe three, days. Then he will be hale again.” Ahmet turned slightly; the old man was looking up at the mural on the ceiling.

“I will have a place prepared for him in the second circle apprentices’ quarters,” Ahmet said. The master turned then, his eyes shadowed in the dim hall.

“No, that will not be necessary,” he said, his voice thin and quiet.

Ahmet rose up slightly, his eyes narrowed, his lips tight.

“What do you mean?” he whispered.

The headmaster reached into his loose robe with a narrow, gnarled hand and drew out a message tube, pale white and bound with a coiling piece* of purple and tan twine. He placed it on the tabletop, halfway between himself and Ahmet.

Ahmet nudged it with his finger. “What is this?”

“A letter of request from the exarch of Alexandria to this school, a request for a second-tier sorcerer to complete the levy upon Egypt to satisfy the demands of the Eastern Emperor.”

“What? What demands of the Emperor?” Ahmet was incredulous, his voice rising.

“Quiet, quiet, young master. There is no explanation here, only the request that we supply one second tier sorcerer to meet the levy. I have been unable to learn anything more from my colleagues at the Karnak school, or in Alexandria itself. The tribune has made the same demand, in varying degree, upon all of the schools and temples in the province.”

The master placed a hand on Ahmet’s shoulder, pushing him gently back down onto the bench. “We are neither over- nor underfavored by this, Ahmet. All of the schools have been levied and all are equally unhappy. Unfortunately, ours is one of the smallest schools, with few masters and a limited number of students. I cannot afford to send a journeyman, or even one of the more advanced apprentices.“

Now Ahmet did rise up, pushing back the bench, his face flushing with rage.

“So you send a boy, a youth without even a fringe of beard? He will go to the Legions, you know, he will serve with those who are ten or twenty years his senior. He will vanish, swallowed up, consumed alive by fire or sorcery, disease…” The master nodded, his face graven with deep lines. Ahmet slumped into the bench, speechless.

“I grieve for the boy, too. But with the trouble that he has caused, and the ramifications for the school, I think that this is the best way, perhaps even for him.” The headmaster gripped Ahmet’s broad shoulders with his hands, setting him upright.

“You have taught him well, Ahmet. His spirit is strong, he is not untalented in the arts, his mind is quick. I pray he will flourish there, springing up anew in some foreign soil to blossom and prosper.”

“No,” Ahmet said, his voice low, “he will die, body and mind consumed by some enemies’ enchantment. He has barely the skills necessary to perceive the true world, much less manipulate it. In the Legion, he will be overtaxed and burned out like a reed taper. You are sending him to certain death.”

With this Ahmet rose, and walked quickly out of the refectory. Behind him, the headmaster bowed his head for a moment and then, squaring his shoulders, rose to return to his own duties.

Thyatis rubbed one tan finger idly along the partially healed scab that ran just under her hairline. The uneven jouncing of the litter made it difficult, but no more so than walking on the deck of a galley on the open sea. The thick muslin curtains of the litter rustled in the breeze and she nudged the near side open a crack. Beyond the muslin, a light cotton drape embroidered with fanciful octopi and dolphins provided a secondary screen to deny passersby view into her sanctuary. All around her, faint but unmistakable in the late spring air, were the sounds of the greatest city in the world preparing to take the afternoon off. Thyatis’ thin nose twitched a little as the breeze caught the shoulder of the nearest Nubian bearer, bringing a musky odor of sweat and cinnamon to her.

/ should be walking, she snarled to herself in her mind. / am not some delicate Palatine daughter to be carted around like a hod of bricks.

Despite an irrational urge to throw the curtains aside and leap out into the street, she remained in the litter. She smoothed the fine linen dress down over the sleek muscles of her thighs and concentrated on appearing demure and inoffensive.

The litter paused and the lead slave rapped lightly on the recessed oaken door of the house with the bronze-shod head of his walking stick. Thyatis checked the slim knife that she had strapped to the inside of her right thigh. It was secure and invisible. The litter lurched forward again as the door swung wide. She breathed softly and evenly through her nose. No more time for thinking.