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First Form stuff.  Hells, the only reason I know so much about it is because Garky kept throwing The Mirror Beckons at me, instead of teaching me anything useful.   I’ve read that monstrosity four times,” he said, disgustedly.
    “I haven’t even read it once ,” Tyndal snapped. 
    “There are three copies in the library,” Rondal suggested.  “It’s only about a hundred, a hundred and twenty pages.”
    “That would take me days! ” Tyndal said, frustrated.  “And I wouldn’t know half of the words in it!  It’s mostly in High Perwynese.  I can barely read Narasi.”
    “Just relax and read it,” Rondal urged.  “It’s really not that hard.  I can help you with the—”
    “I don’t need your help!” Tyndal said, angrily.  “I will fail on my own, thank you!”
    Rondal blinked.  “Ishi’s tits, Tyn.  Calm down .  I’m not trying to make you feel like an idiot.  I just want to help.”
    “I don’t see what the point of all of this is, anyway,” he said, sourly, as he started in on the sausage.  “We’re High Magi – hells, we’re Knights Magi.  All of this remedial crap is just insulting, after what we’ve done!”
    “It’s not about what we have done,” Rondal said, patiently, “it’s about what we know .  This isn’t a punishment, Tyn.  This is to help us get more out of our witchstones.  Make us more useful .  Think of it that way.” 
    Rondal let Tyndal finish his meal in silence, as he went back to the book he was reading.  Tyndal noted with annoyance from the script that it was entirely in the flowing script of High Perwynese – a language he barely recognized, let alone could read fluently.
    Unfortunately, most of the classic texts on magic that he was expected to know were in the ancient tongue of the Archmagi, not the barbaric, runic script of the Narasi he knew . . . sort of.   His frustration almost palpable, he finished his meal as quickly as possible and stood up.
    Rondal’s eyes followed him.  “Where are you going?”
    “To the one place here where I know what I’m doing,” Tyndal shot back.  “The practice yard.”
    *                             *                            *
     
    Since the first time Tyndal had held a blade in earnest – his master’s long Farisi “knife,” a prize of war from the Farisian campaign he had given him the night the goblins had invaded – Tyndal had found a sense of power and control in swordplay that eluded him otherwise.  While he loved magic, the song of steel and footwork and sweat was what drew him when he needed to think .
    He had taken every opportunity to practice with the blade.  From the long days during the siege of Boval Castle, to the few weeks spent at this very academy as a refugee, to the brutally active Battle of Timberwatch, where he had been able to spar with some of the finest blade masters he knew, he had learned all he could to become a better swordsman. 
    He had even spent hours and hours with Sir Cei and Sir Forondo, back at Sevendor Castle, working on the finer points of his technique.  And of course his master had made a point of passing along all the wisdom of steel he possessed when he had begun training his apprentice as a warmage.
    Inarion Academy was in a peaceful village, and its new Royal Charter affirming its rights and prerogatives under the new Kingdom ensured that it could not be attacked by its neighbors the way most feudal domains could be. 
    But that didn’t mean that the school lacked guards.  A full guardhouse, with nine veterans enjoying the easy duty, stood at the entrance of the school.  Most students passed by without even noticing the burly men who guarded their peaceful studies.  Tyndal could not pass by with out watching.
    He wasn’t entirely alone in his interest.  Most of the students at the Academy were from noble families, and until the emergence of their rajira , their Talent for magic, they