The Sleeping Life

Chapter Five

"DeVries. Take that smug look off your face and sit down."

Fallon sat, wondering how his wary puzzlement translated to smug, then waited to find out why he was there. A summons to the House Master’s office usually meant a lecture, and Fallon had already had two in the first part of the year, all about the need to balance study and practice with rest and resilience. Each time, they’d doubled his weekly exercise schedule.

That had helped, much to his surprise. For all he’d been taught that physical hardiness made casting safer, Fallon hadn’t expected the ordeal of jogging around the palace’s protective circle to reward him with less exhausted mornings. But he hadn’t kept it up during the extended break following the attack on the Arkathan, and now didn’t seem able to get ahead of his own weariness. Or perhaps simply the sense of defeat.

"I can see you already know why you’re here," the House Master said. "I won’t congratulate you, just offer a note of caution. The Teremic approach to casting became so prevalent because a good portion of those who didn’t adopt it ended up dead. Not that this isn’t an opportunity half the school would give their eye-teeth for, but, well, you surely know the consequences of getting ahead of yourself."

The faint discomfort told Fallon the House Master was referring to Auri’s presumed death, but before Fallon could untangle the rest of the warning, the man added: "Your father is in the guest area. Be sure to hand in any school property before you go."

Cold shock kept Fallon’s face frozen, and he wondered if he still looked smug as he carefully thanked the House Master, then made himself walk, not run, to the room tucked into the dormitories where guests were left to cool their heels. Father? Here? Father had barely left the house in years.

Had Fallon made some massive error in the household accounts? Was he being dropped from the Arkathan for lack of funds? But, no, the House Master had talked of opportunities. Could Fallon dare to hope that his approach to Duchess Surclere hadn’t been such a complete disaster? That the combination of his idiot mouth and being Earl Harkness' nephew hadn’t made his goal unachievable?

Only he could start out by alienating both the village girl and Duchess Surclere’s brother. Auri had been livid when he’d explained that he’d heard so much about how the girl didn’t know anything about casting, didn’t even know the most basic sigils and standard forms, that when he finally stumbled across her he’d just asked if it was true.

But he’d thought of a way to counter that, had even managed to make use of it just as the Duchess was leaving the annunciation ceremony, and purely taken for itself that conversation had gone very well. He’d captured her attention, and held his own discussing the early development of casting. He might not be a daringly confident caster—the other students called him Slow-and-steady DeVries—but surely a solid base of theory was more interesting to a devising mage like Duchess Surclere?

Fallon had thought the Duchess had genuinely meant it when she said she’d think about his request, and had let himself hope. But then he’d learned that the talk of her illness wasn’t exaggeration, and that she was on the verge of leaving the country, and knew it had all been for nothing. Yet here was the Duchess' husband, Lord Surclere, talking to—

"Father?"

If Vannan DeVries caught the note of incredulity, he did not show it as he turned and smiled. "My boy. The first time I have visited you here. Are you still having trouble sleeping?"

"Not too bad, Father," Fallon said, finding no answers in Lord Surclere’s expression, and all too aware he was closely observed in return. "I didn’t expect you."

"I did not expect myself," Fallon’s father replied. He was in high good humour, eyes bright, which only confused Fallon more.

"I will leave you to your preparation," Lord Surclere said, his voice thin and unnatural. "Contact me if there are any issues."

"I will indeed, sir," Fallon’s father said, and then disconcerted Fallon completely by clasping the Kellian man’s hand in both of his and pumping it warmly. "And thank you again. I have enjoyed our discussion enormously."

"We will continue it in the spring," Lord Surclere said, glanced at Fallon, and departed.

"Why did you not tell me that you wanted to study with the Duchess of Surclere, lad?" Fallon’s father asked. "You could not fear my disapproval, surely?"

"I didn’t think she’d agree," Fallon said, sitting down to combat sudden dizziness. It had worked? There was a roaring in his ears, and he had to take deep breaths just to keep himself together. He’d done it.

"—remarkable man," his father was saying. "Did you know, he has travelled to see both the Casellian marbles and Ridena Tower? And he recognised that Tisian carving Geralt gave for a wedding gift—said it was most likely looted from one of their temples, that they’re mounted in the windows as wards. That would be Geralt all over: too insensible to wonder where a piece might come from, what vandalism had been committed to obtain it."

"The—Lord Surclere was at the house?" Fallon felt sick.

"Yes, indeed. We had a long interview—perhaps longer than he intended, since it has been an age since I could chat with someone so knowledgeable. And then he brought me to meet the Duchess. Charming young woman, though sadly under the weather. You must be sure to support her as best you can."

Stomach twisting, Fallon gazed at his father helplessly. How to ask if he’d introduced Lord Surclere to a cold marble wife and daughter? Impossible to guess whether the Kellian man knew of his father’s fixation, or what he might do about it.

And they were starting for Kole tomorrow.

"I’m not sure I can leave you," Fallon said, betrayed into a high, panicked note.

"My boy, what is this?"

"I—"

"If you are concerned about the creature they are hunting, don’t be. Lord Surclere, while he acknowledged that no travel is without its dangers, has assured me that there is no intention of exposing the Duchess or her students. The Sentene are experts in these matters, and, upon my word, if ever I met a person I’d trust you with, it’s Lord Surclere."

Fallon was entirely unequal to telling his father that it was his safety that was the problem: that Fallon didn’t dare to leave him unprotected. Vannon DeVries' overwhelming grief and withdrawal from society made him an object of pity. But if it were known that he held affectionate conversations with two lumps of stone, sympathy would turn to derision—and consequences. Madness in even a minor mage was not taken lightly.

"You’d best not let Uncle hear you say things like that," Fallon said weakly. "He’s always insisting Kellian bewitch people."

"Geralt!" Fallon’s father snorted. "Would he have me meet a man of singular knowledge and competence, and not acknowledge the privilege? His private misfortunes need not colour my opinions."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, well—" Fallon’s father glanced toward the door, then gave Fallon an embarrassed smile. "We can discuss that on the way home. Shall we collect your things? I will look out my old travelling trunk and we’ll see if it can manage everything you need. And, ah, I must give you a list of places to see in Koletor."

Fallon’s father talked happily of friezes and columns all through the afternoon. It was the most like his proper self Fallon had seen him since Auri’s miscasting, and he had to wonder at the transformation. One thing everyone said of Kellian was they hardly spoke, and it was difficult to imagine the taciturn Lord Surclere in lively conversation about art. But probably Fallon’s father had done most of the talking.

It wasn’t possible. The plan had never included leaving the city. Certainly hadn’t envisaged a teacher as burdened as he, the power of her focus lost, her casting limited by a physical fragility which surpassed Fallon’s own. And no plan could ever involve leaving Father at risk of exposure.

After achieving what he’d thought impossible, Fallon would have to give it up.