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spell should have put the fire out, and not affected the
lamps. Nonetheless, a genuine look of wonder had come over Seregil,
and it transformed him, just as his smile had, the day Nysander met
him. This young man intrigued him more and more.
    “Can I try something else?” Seregil
asked.
    “Tea first.”
    He filled two earthenware cups and gave one
to Seregil, who held it to his nose first and inhaled softly with
eyes closed before taking his first sip. “It’s excellent. Is it
from the Koromba Mountains?”
    “It is,” Nysander told him, impressed. “Are
you a connoisseur of tea?”
    “No, it’s one of the ones my sister always—”
He broke off, and kept his attention on his cup.
    So, you do have some family. Nysander
wondered if this was how he’d get any information from the young
‘faie, bit by tiny bit.
     

     
    He let Seregil finish his tea, then took him
back to the workshop. Once again Seregil looked around with keen
interest, and began asking questions. A lot of questions.
    “May I ask your clan?” said Nysander asked as
he showed him how the astrolabe worked.
    Seregil looked out through the glass dome.
There was little to see at the moment. The pouring rain cloaked the
city in a veil of grey. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
    Running away again, Nysander thought. One
moment he was as eager as a child, the next he was that sad,
tightlipped young man again, full of secrets and pain.
    “Very well. Would you like to try another
spell?”
    “Yes, please.”
    Nysander carried an unlit candle in a holder
into the casting room and set it on the polished stone table at the
center. “I want you to light this. Just say or think the word
‘magistal’ and snap your fingers while concentrating on the
wick.”
    With a look of eager anticipation, Seregil
snapped his fingers. Instead of lighting, however, the candle flew
across the room and stuck to the wall in a melted mass. “I must
have thought it wrong.”
    “Perhaps.” Nysander placed another candle in
the holder. “Try again and say it aloud.”
    “Magistal.” Seregil snapped his fingers. This
time the candle softened and drooped like a wilted flower. “I guess
I was right. I don’t have any magic in me.”
    “If you didn’t, then none of the spells you
have cast would have had any effect at all,” Nysander explained.
“So you do, but there is something odd about it. Those were
beginner’s spells. Are you still feeling sick from the
translocation?”
    “A little.”
     

     
    “Perhaps that is the problem. And of course
magic works a bit differently with your people. Well, your clothing
will be dry by now. Change and I will show you the museum.”
    When Seregil was dressed they wended their
way through the piles of documents stacked by the tower door, and
out to the mezzanine that overlooked the glass-domed atrium. From
here one could see the mosaic that covered the floor below; the
scarlet dragon of Illior crowned with a silver crescent, flying
above the harbor and walled city of Rhíminee.
    “You have dragons in Skala?” asked Seregil,
peering over the railing.
    “Not for a very long time. But it is still
one of the symbols of Illior.”
    “Your god that’s like Aura?”
    “Yes. We believe them to be one and the
same.”
    Seregil looked doubtful as he followed
Nysander down the five flights of stairs and across the atrium to
the corridor leading to the museum.
    It was a huge vaulted room filled with large
glass cases. A whale’s skeleton hung from the ceiling.
    “There is a great deal to see here,” Nysander
said. “Let me show you a few of my favorites.”
    For nearly an hour Seregil moved eagerly from
case to case, looking at the various artifacts as Nysander
explained their use or history. There were jewels and weapons, as
well as magical items that posed no threat. That sort were stored
in the maze of chambers under the House.
    Seregil asked more questions and Nysander was
again impressed by the young man’s native