B4 Chapter 480: Delegation, pt. 2

Ianmus gripped the letter in his hands, its edges crumpling.

It was a simple thing — rough-cut and crudely processed, with a tan tint that suggested it hadn’t been through a bleaching wash. An everyday, run-of-the-mill product like he might expect a simple innkeep to use for his ledger, yet the information it held struck far harder than its common heritage.

The Mystral delegation was arriving in hours.

Ianmus rocked back in his chair, the letter fluttering to the table. So soon. He’d expected that his contemporaries would still be days away. The administration of the Spires was many things, but swift-moving wasn’t a word he would have picked to describe it. Even with the current circumstances, organising so many mages from multiple different Spires should have taken time.

Was it him? He still didn’t know how the Headmaster had been able to tell, but the man had noticed his strength immediately.

What was he thinking? Of course his sudden ascension to Silver would have forced the Spires into action. He was a known quantity — skilled and dedicated, yes — but he was not so egotistical as to think that his rise would have been expected.

His fate had been changed irrevocably when he met Kaius and Porkchop, and that would have been just as evident to the Headmaster as it was to him.

Ianmus glanced at the letter once more, detailing not just the upcoming arrival of the mages, but who he should expect. Seventy of them. Most senior mages, well on their way through the ranks of Steel. From Sunspire, Stormspire, Ironspire, and Stonespire.

That, in and of itself, didn’t surprise him. Of course the Headmaster would ensure a sizable delegation from their shared dynasty. And the others were either close allies in the complex dance that was Mystral politics, or — in the case of Stonespire — straightforward and honourable.

Though he suspected those mages had an ulterior motive to join as well. He’d never met a stone mage who didn’t dream of defending against a siege.

More surprising was the composition of the cadre: five Silvers, headed by Ophelia of Stormspire — and Cantor of his own.

Ophelia, he knew of only by reputation. Fiery and resolute, she was a mid-Silver who had mastered flight. No doubt a significant part of this swift arrival would be her doing, supported by the Steels of Stormspire.

Cantor, though — that man he knew.

Ianmus blinked, remembering those hard grey eyes boring into him, always watching, waiting for him to slip up. Ianmus never had, for he was not the man that Cantor had always assumed him to be.

The son of a wealthy, blueblooded merchant, Cantor had been one of the few in the Spire to hold no distaste for Ianmus’s half-born heritage. No, his prejudice had been founded entirely in the fact that Ianmus was low-born — a dirt-streaked rat with delusions of grandeur.

Ianmus clenched his fist. Once, he might have been nervous, perhaps even felt a little sick running into Cantor once again. Not now.

How would the mage react now that they were equals?

A thought came to him, causing him to shake his head. Were they equals? Cantor had taken decades to reach Silver, and while he had made respectable and notable achievements to the progression of the mystic arts, they were only what was expected of him.

He, on the other hand, had seized a Heroic class, discovered a whole new branch of spellcasting, and gathered Honours by the pile.

Cantor might have been a middle Silver with forty levels on him, but Ianmus had killed Golds.

The idea that he was stronger than a man who had once been his strictest tutor was an odd one.

He grinned. Cantor must have been briefed on what to expect, and Ianmus would have paid all the gold in the world to have been able to witness that conversation through an illusory eye.

Still, regardless of their personal differences — and Cantor’s personal failings — Ianmus knew that the mage respected Sunspire and the duties of his station above all else. In five years at the Academy, not once had Cantor overtly abused his power to unfairly block Ianmus’s advancement. Oh, the feedback had been extensive, harsh, and often dubiously even-handed compared to some of his classmates — but he’d never been unfairly marked.

He remembered that day, at the end of his second year. He’d been sitting at his desk, working on some final preparations for a spellweaving demonstration he had to undertake at the end of that week. Despite knowing that he was easily the most prepared in his class, he’d still pushed himself — right up until a letter had arrived, summoning him before the Headmasters and his professor.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Even with the note providing no details, he’d known what it was for. It had come only two weeks before the official announcement of the valedictorian. It was everything he had strived for: month after month of labour, pushing himself to the brink to prove to himself and the rest of the Spire that he was more than worthy — that he was the very best.

Cantor had been there when he had been presented with his sash — a single face amongst over a dozen that had crowded the Headmaster’s office, a space already drowning in stacked piles of books and small mountains of scrolls.

The Silver mage had looked like he’d swallowed a bitter pill, but Ianmus hadn’t missed the sincerity of his congratulations.

Maybe he was overreacting. It had been years since he had last seen Cantor. It would be the first time they met as equals, rather than professor and initiate.

Ianmus ran his hands through his hair. Who was he kidding? An old, squabblesome relationship with a teacher mattered nothing in the face of keyseal conjuration.