A School of Many Futures: A Story of Mystic Destinies and Questionable Decisions (Tales of Avenoth Book 2): Tales of Avenoth, #2

By Steven Savage

Dangerous gods. Evil sorcery. Lost technology. Homework.

 

Marigold the sorceress and Scintilla the technic were typical teachers of Techno-Mystical Safety. It took people with an edge to teach about mad deities, deadly tech, and wild magic. Unfortunately, their edge came from secrets: dead god and government coverup kind of secrets.  That meant people started asking questions no one wanted answered.

 

Teaming up with their fellow conspirators, Reverend Beacon and Briar the soldier, they took an assignment at recently-founded Magoneer Academy. A typical new school was all they needed to escape scrutiny about their past.

 

Unfortunately, their secrets might be the least dangerous ones there.  How could a school barely a year old attract impossible mysteries, strange destinies, an assassin, and worse? It would take people with an exceptional edge to protect the students and find the truth . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Savage
• Release date: Sep 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201752330

Steven Savage

Steven Savage is a biologist, natural history writer, lecturer, and an associate member of the Institute of Biology in England. He teaches about ocean biology and has written more than thirty-seven natural history books for children.

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A School of Many Futures

A Story of Mystic Destinies and Questionable Decisions

(Tales of Avenoth Book 2)

(First Edition)

By Steven Savage

Copyright © 2021 by Steven Savage

All Rights Reserved. The materials in this book are provided for the personal use of the purchaser of the book. No redesign, editing, reproductions, or creations of a derivative work from these materials is permitted without the permission of Steven Savage. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission – except for the inclusion of quotations in a review or personal use.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental, unless intended as parody.

This book is provided as is without warranty of any kind.

AUTHOR: Steven Savage

www.stevensavage.com

www.informotron.com

EDITORS: Taylor Ramage, Dianna Gunn

COVER ARTIST: Steven Savage

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Previously In A Bridge To The Quiet Planet

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Appendix: The Calendar of Telvaren

About The Author

Other Books by Steven Savage

Dedication

Dedicated to everyone who keeps the world running.

Dedicated to my inspirations: Monty Oum, Sir Terry Pratchett, Grant Morrison, Neil Gaiman, Jack Kirby, and Richard Florida.

Acknowledgments

To Magen Cubed, whose thoughts on genre fiction made me want to return to writing some.

To Taylor Ramage and Dianna Gunn, my editors.

To Julie for her support.

To Serdar Yegulalp, who encouraged me to write and explore my own ways of doing things.

To Bonnie Walling, for all her encouragement and pre-reading.

To Sammy Rainecourt, who's initial feedback was a massive inspiration.

To all my friends who believed in me.

Previously in A Bridge to the Quiet Planet

Humanity had survived the War that devastated its homeworld of Telvaren. Divine disagreement, great sorceries, and powerful technologies left only the Twelve Great Cities, the few Unaffiliated Territories, and the offworld colonies. Through the decades-long effort of The Reformation, gods and humans re-designed their relationships and sought peace.

Two hundred and fifty years of peace followed. However, humanity did not ignore its past – everything from recovering lost technologies to remembering great events was vital. The past was to be overcome and reused.

Sorceress Marigold and the technic Scintilla functioned as Recoverers – disarmers and locators of lost tech and magic, or dangerous modern mistakes. Having seen the horrors of the past up close in an accident, the childhood friends hoped to teach Techno-Mystical safety when they were qualified. Those qualifications required them to log time learning about and possibly fighting the past.

When they had a chance to deliver some ancient books to the divine grave-planet of Godsrest, they took it. Assisting bookseller Shalen Vynne, they sough that journey across the techno-magical bridges as a chance to get the credit they needed. They were helped by local cleric Beacon Rindle, servant of goddess of opportunity Firilana, whose divine guidance promised an easy time.

Several planetary trips, multiple battles, and being stuck on a runaway train on the world of Lindhaem, they found they were wrong. Pursued by misguided exorcists, mercenaries, a special effects mage, and members of the ancient Whispered Dirge, they found their client wasn't who they expected. Shalen was the Deceiver, a famous god thought to be dead, but who chose to retire in human form until the end of his life.

As gods in the word die explosively, they had to get him to Godsrest, and barely did so despite many misadventures. The god provided Marigold, Scintilla, and Beacon secrets for their own ends. Watched over by Briar Lindel-Passen, soldier of the Old Order of the Whispered Dirge, they would be allowed to use those mysteries as long as they were careful.

And for twelve out of the sixteen months of the year they were careful . . .

Chapter 1

Spring, Skysday the 18th of Sunbless, 254 A.R.

Marigold Rel-Domau was concerned that being chased by three angry sorcerers could make her late to class and plunge the world into chaos.

This wasn't her intention, of course. She and Scintilla lectured students on Techno-Mystical Safety in the Great City of Grand Ivar, a profession with a high risk of chaos on good days. Short, intense lectures on the dangers of demons or rogue technology brought a great deal of scrutiny.

With such scrutiny, being late to class could be disruptive. Disruptions would bring questions from Polestar University, who deployed Scintilla and herself to assignments. Questions might lead people to ask how a sorceress like herself and a technic like Scintilla had been certified to teach Techno-Mystical Safety.

Chaos would follow if they got the answers.

Unfortunately, she and Scintilla had discovered the location of a long-lost old holy book, an irresistible bit of history to Recoverers like themselves. Such a find kept up their reputation with Polestar, Marigold's guild of Phoenix Ascendant, and Scintilla's tangle of professional relationships. This week's students would also enjoy an actual, physical lesson about what was lost during the War centuries ago.

If they weren't careful, even if they made it to class, the lesson would include three angry magic-users, a confused Thaldric Priest, and Marigold's failures at diplomacy.

Oh, and chaos.

I think you were kinda impolite, said Scintilla, who jogged along next to her effortlessly. She never seemed to tire despite her shorter stature and the gadgets stashed into her mismatched jumpsuit. Marigold credited Scintilla's erratic training as a reservist in the City Guard.

I don't think they liked my tone when I said we were there first, Marigold said apologetically. Perhaps criticizing Mirror Mountain's flailing attempts to stand out among the older guilds had involved too many of the wrong words.

They swiftly ran across the colorful, decorative roofs of Grand Ivar, their home among the twelve Great Cities. Marigold had plotted an escape route, and now they ran across a pleasingly clean warehouse roof in the Eastern Ward. Picking up the book had seemed easy, so she had assumed it would go wrong and had planned accordingly.

Want to hide? Scintilla asked, blowing a strand of her wild, long, red hair out of her mouth. I think we have about ten minutes.

Nine, Marigold said. She raised one of her hands – she wore light golden gauntlets on both, and the left had a watch inside the wrist. Scintilla had installed it, but it was apparently just a watch, not one of her experiments.

Told you the watch would help. Now, hiding?

Marigold assessed the situation carefully because carefully hadn't had much attention this morning.

Scintilla could probably hide in a crowd because you had many people of Northern descent in the Wards, shorter folks with tan skin. Unfortunately, she was a technic and wore a typical technic's getup, all pockets and pouches and leathers and the suggestion of many hidden tools and nasty things. The large backpack with a large book jammed into it was the final rune in the spell, as it were.

Marigold knew she was unhideable.

She looked like a stereotypical Westerner from stories; tall and brown-skinned, wearing her wavy auburn hair in a traditional long style no longer popular. By law, she had to wear the traditional red and gold robes of Phoenix Ascendant to warn them she was a user of magic. She had never been able to legally figure out why a guild of magic-wielding Recoverers and Historians chose to dress like holiday banners.

Sorry, Scintilla apologized, having realized Marigold's conclusions as fast as she'd come to them.

Hold on, end of the roof, Marigold announced.

A path of inviting rooftops stretched in front of her, and one warehouse showed promise. It was a block of gray magestone and prefab concrete that locals had splashed with colorful murals. The seven-meter leap across the streets below was easy with modern magic.

Marigold reached out with her mind, symbols and images aligning. The magic within herself and the magic in the world connected as she shaped gravity, the Great Pull, one of the elements she'd chosen to master.

Gravity Cut.

She named the spell, and she and Scintilla glided across the gap above the streets with their autocoaches and pedestrians. Even up here, she could smell the warehouse's contents – produce to judge by the wet-crisp scent. Another small part of Grand Ivar's complex culinary ecosystem.

I hate this! Scintilla said as her feet touched the roof of their target. You gotta learn how to fly. Maybe work more on kinetic magic?

You sound like my mother.

Yes, but you listen to her. Sometimes.

Marigold smiled at the banter. Arguing had been an essential part of their friendship and partnership since their shared childhood. If two people agreed on things readily, they often made more unoriginal mistakes. Marigold preferred original mistakes.

A few more buildings, and we're at the school. Scintilla shifted the backpack around. "The Concise Codex of Myallon is kinda large."

Marigold nodded, pacing her breathing as she ran. That is the god of bureaucracy for you. I thought it would be small. I wore my artifact bra, just in case.

The one your parents gave you for your birthday?

Yes, it has theonic shielding on the back pouch. Some priestesses use them.

I just get gift certificates. Ledge. Next Roof. Flip me.

Marigold's mind reached out into the world in front of her, into the magic flowing behind reality. She quickly cut gravity again so the two floated onto the roof of the next building, a shopping arcade to judge by the tinny music. She managed to add an extra twist to the magic, so Scintilla gently spun around to get a view of their pursuers.

One down, two left, Scintilla reported as they landed.

What happened? Marigold asked, trying to remember what magic their pursuers had displayed.

Air mage went face-first into a water tower. Hey, is this a Mage Duel, or can I blast them? Scintilla's hand instinctively went to the holster on her hip, where she kept Elegant Lancer, a Variable Weapon in the form of a pistol. It was an obvious weapon in an obvious holster, bearing the obvious seals that told people she could be trusted not to use it.

Marigold tried to figure what to say in a way to make Scintilla listen. By tradition, the often-eccentric users of magic could settle a disagreement with displays of spells. Society had found that such practices saved time and made exciting news reports. Scintilla had little patience for such things and an unrealistic expectation of how mages that weren't Marigold acted.

Only if they attack both of us. Just don't shoot anyone not a danger to themselves or others. End of roof.

Got it. I think we're two buildings away. Flip me.

Marigold bent gravity again. This was a tricky bit where she had to cut enough gravity for them to drift atop the apartment building across the street. The Eastern Ward involved shipping, receiving, and transport, and many people lived near where they worked. The whole area felt like the Great City of Zafrel, the transport hub of Telvaren and a close ally of Grand Ivar.

A few people looked out of their windows to glare at them; no one needed their early morning interrupted by the casual use of magic or someone zooming by in a skysuit. Fortunately, Marigold and Scintilla only barely grazed some of the decorative banners hanging from the side of the building.

Scintilla was right; she really should take time to learn proper flying when life was less chase-oriented and world-chaos endangering. By her assuredly precise calculations, that was four months from now.

Marigold managed to land them on the roof carefully while rotating Scintilla with something approximating elegance. She glanced at her watch and saw she had seven minutes before class.

The students were waiting. She wanted to walk into class dramatically, show them the Codex, and have the lessons of the week (well, the five out of eight days they taught) be unforgettable. Yes, it was one week, but this was the week they learned how to survive the dangers of the world from people who hadn't been professionally killed by those dangers.

How many? Marigold asked, regrets multiplying in her mind as valuable seconds died.

They had to go after that book, didn't they? When you knew secrets, you had to use them for people. Marigold tasted the surprise of the students before god-greedy theologians riffled through the pages.

Still two. Close. They'll be up to us next building. Plan two? Scintilla asked.

Marigold nodded. Plan two. Edge.

Scintilla sighed as they leapt off the roof and floated down to the next one, buoyed by Marigold's magic. She toned the threads of gravity carefully in the optimistic delusion Scintilla would complain less.

As soon as they landed, the pair turned around to look up at the roof of the apartment building. Two robed figures appeared at the top, wearing the purple and black of Mirror Mountain. Marigold disapproved of Mirror Mountain's constant schemes, but they had chosen an excellent color scheme.

It was also one more hiding-worthy, the lucky spell-flingers. They could blend into shadows by sheer accident – and they had hoods! Phoenix Ascendant frowned on non-practical headgear as showy and inappropriate for working mages. It took an exceptional organization to argue about diadems, and she paid dues to one to tell her not to wear them.

Marigold and Scintilla each took a careful combat stance, as body language was useful when mages confronted users of magic. Or, in this case, two mages facing one sorceress and a woman prepared to shoot them under the right circumstances.

The sorceress watched their opponents approach. Marigold relished the excitement despite knife-flashes of guilt. Their role as teachers was to experience Techno-Mystical challenges personally; that's how you knew they were qualified. This moment told them they were doing things right, if not the right things.

History thrummed beneath the skin of the world like an irregular heartbeat.

The two Mirror Mountain sorcerers dropped to the roof. One was clearly a kinetic mage, leaping off the apartment building and breaking their fall with a blast of magic. The other moved like an animal, landing after a great leap – a rare physical mage, the magic snaking through their body, powerful enough to scrape against Marigold's mind.

It wasn't the typical gaggle of Mirror Mountain spellcasters, all anxious and insecure. There was a confidence to them, though they did look to be newly out of University. Perhaps they hadn't had time to become effectively disillusioned.

Marigold looked at her watch. They had six minutes to keep history from becoming far too historical.

We really had to go after that book. Why didn't I listen to Scintilla? Why did she listen to me?

We'd like that book. It's an interesting anomaly, the kinetic mage said, holding out a hand. Her hood was askew, and Marigold could make out her tan skin and dirty-blond hair. The young magic-user had the worn expression only a young person could have.

We were first. We will not give it to you, Marigold stated, forging the words into a command.

The tired-looking woman crossed her arms. Really? This isn't Phoenix Ascendant's beat. It's just a holy book, no old data, it's not going to blow up or . . .

Also, you're going to make us late to class, Marigold said, springing Plan Two, which was sympathy. Despite the friction between users of magic, the practice of sorcerers created a helpful empathy if one remembered to use it before clashes began.

The two Mirror Mountain sorcerers looked at each other. The physical mage stood, body moving with inhuman smoothness.

Um . . . the physical mage began. They seemed to be hiding in the depths of their robes, as if embarrassed to be there.

Marigold snuck her slate out of its pouch. Like everyone on the planet of Telvaren, everyone on the colony worlds circling great Avenoth, she relied on her slate to connect her to the Network and hold vital information. A quick tap brought up her class schedule.

Can we settle this in five minutes? Marigold asked. She held the slate so they could appreciate her impeccable five-day syllabus. We've got a class to teach. Techno-Mystical Safety.

With an extra day on Critical History, Scintilla added. That's today. The last day. Of our assignment. Which you're interrupting.

Marigold watched their calculated gamble play out. These people expected a fight, so the first thing to do was not give them one. That way, if one happened, it'd be blamed on the Mirror Mountain sorcerers who probably didn't want to risk whatever their reputation was.

Oh, you too?" The physical mage asked.

Marigold opened her mouth, then closed it because her words couldn't agree which order to come out in.

Well, we're in training! Techno-mystical safety as well, said the kinetic mage. Wow, you're certified?

Yeah, Scintilla said. Critical history, Techno-Mystical safety through Polestar. We're Recoverers when not doing class.

We like to teach by illustration, Marigold added. The Codex is an excellent example of history hidden in plain sight.

Marigold waited for a response, glancing at her watch in the most obvious manner possible.

The kinetic mage slumped. Sorry. I thought we'd have a nice fight, but, well, I'd had to blast fellow teachers . . .

. . . we're not teachers yet, the physical mage mumbled.

The kinetic mage continued. Could you give us a reason? I was thinking maybe we tussle a bit, have a bit of spell-and-tumble? A few pictures . . .

Her eyes were those of a child afraid to look bad in front of siblings, darting around constantly.

Oh, yes, Marigold answered, snapping her fingers – which wasn't necessary but did make an impression and focus her mind.

Symbols flew through her mind as she aligned thought and magic. The air swirled as she called forth her other specialty – kinetics. Pure force, just like the younger sorceress in front of her.

Kinetic Lance.

The air rippled as she conjured a kinetic bolt and threw it at the physical mage, who crashed into an air vent on the roof.

Oh, that was good! The physical mage said admiringly. Marigold saw the magic in their body, threaded through sinew and bone, armoring him. Not someone to underestimate, but it seemed they underestimated themselves.

Marigold pointed at the other magic-user. Bits of magic spun around her hand, little sparkles – not the kind that could produce mageburn, but enough to impress.

Oh. You're a combat mage, the kinetic mage said, raising her hands nervously. Gravity and kinetics? I use kinetics too, but I combine it with cohesion magic. Explorer mage!

Marigold nodded. Gravity and kinetics. And yes, technically a combat mage. Well, I assume there will be no more questions?

She used her teacher's voice, the one she'd cultivated carefully. Many a non-student had found old instincts made them suddenly pay attention to her, and they never knew why.

Three minutes.

Settled. The physical mage nodded. Marigold, was it?

Marigold Rel-Domau, Phoenix Ascendant.

The two magic-wielders regarded Scintilla. She had not demonstrated her power, and they wisely assumed she might.

Scintilla bowed after a moment of reasonable fear. Scintilla Ferr-Orbil. Signed technic to Phoenix Ascendant, member of the Applied Artificers Union, City Guard reservist.

Uh, Okay. Nice to meet you! The physical mage's smile was evident in the depths of their hood. We'll get you some other time. Or something!

Or we'll see you at the cross-guild banquet! the kinetic mage added. "We might meet you and your technic again!

That's in a few months, Marigold said to Scintilla, you always forget.

It's boring for all of us non-mages, Scintilla answered bitterly. No matter how well Phoenix Ascendant treated non-magical members, a gathering of necromancers and diviners and the like wasn't for everyone. It tended to lack anything of interest for the non-magical or risked becoming too interesting.

Marigold watched the two members of Mirror Mountain leap off of the roof. She felt history slither-slide onto a less chaotic course, and the world stayed as it was for one more day.

Scintilla groaned, hands fluttering in frustration. ‘Your technic.' Seriously? Does anyone get what the word ‘partner' means?

Marigold smiled and made a dismissive gesture. Mirror Mountain doesn't appreciate non-magical talent. That's why they're always behind. Well, one of many reasons. Those two . . .

Scintilla shook her head. They're going to get chewed up. You don't do this job if you don't have . . .

The technic fell uncharacteristically silent. Scintilla was staring at a small shrine set up on the otherwise bare roof. You'd see those everywhere – some gods and goddesses even preferred such accessible holy places. This shrine was an amateur job and a familiar one.

In the hastily-made wooden shrine stood a multi-armed statue of a very familiar god. It was decorated in a riot of colors, crudely but lovingly crafted.

. . . an edge, Scintilla said sadly.

Another shrine to the Deceiver, Marigold said, surprised at her own anger. These are so morbid, even if he died recently.

Yeah, that old tradition came back fast. Scintilla shuddered. Shrines to dead gods are bad luck.

Marigold's broad brow furrowed. "One minute! The class. Wait . . . that looks like the shrine on the sub-floor of the school. Oh. My. We've got it wrong."

The two of them turned around in perfect precision to face a very familiar large window looking into a very familiar classroom. Behind that window, she saw the familiar faces of the students they'd been instructing in areas like magical safety and unusual technologies over the last week. They had just given an excellent demonstration on the dangers of magic by Marigold, and all looked unwisely excited.

They saw everything, Scintilla noted through gritted teeth, waving at the students.

Using this as a learning experience, Marigold answered.

The student's eager eyes ignited Marigold's heart. Their curiosity, their enthusiasm, the appropriate look of fear after she'd blasted a fellow mage. They'd learn, they'd remember, they'd grow up a little safer in the world.

And we gotta meet Beacon after this, Scintilla whispered. We're gonna need some divine help to decide our next assignment.

She looked at the students, each of them happy to see Scintilla and herself. How would they feel if they knew just how they'd gotten here?

Help from a deity we didn't watch die is always welcome, Marigold said.

* * *

The Reverend Beacon Rindle, cleric to Firilana, the goddess of opportunity, took stock of his audience. He had filled the largest lecture hall in the theopolis of Triad True to capacity. Absolutely everyone who was anyone in the world of divine contact was there in the giant white-domed room to see him.

. . . and this is the importance of education. But I am here to speak on my own insights, and my own personal, ahem, Revelations.

He paused for laughter while giving his best pulpit-smile. Humor always helped with an audience who had minds halfway into Godsrealm.

Beacon suddenly felt the many eyes upon him and checked his hair. Perfectly groomed, down to his neck at just the right length, black strands perfectly coiffed to accent his face. Just the right makeup to bring out the golden tones in his skin. He had his blue robes pressed and prepped, bought just for this occasion. Never a vain person, Beacon was proud he could approximate it when needed.

The golden symbol of the Great Wheel blazed on his chest, the sign of Firilana. It seemed more golden than usual.

He spoke shakily. For I can now tell you . . .

. . . and he was not in a room. He was in a rainbow-fire place that was more than one thing. He stood on a gleaming floor made of maybe, while he breathed potential instead of air.

In front of him stood Firilana, goddess of opportunity.

She appeared in her many-faceted glory – taller than a human, clad in the blue of lightning and deepest water. Her skin was as finished wood, her smiling face framed by a cloud of golden hair. The Great Wheel blazed behind her, the color of the sun in an artist's dreams.

The goddess smiled down at him. Her kind eyes sparkled with the futures that might be, each an illuminated path to a tempting maybe.

Oh, sorry! she said, bringing her hands to her mouth. I didn't think I'd interrupt. I was going to send you an email. I didn't mean to walk in. Dreams, you know! Good luck! Let's see what's happening next! Exiting!

Wait! Beacon said frantically, You're here, I . . .

Beacon woke up. For a moment of fear and glory, between waking and sleep, he saw his Goddess and Godsrealm as they were. Great patterns and things, lines and figures and shapes, the divinity beneath and above the world. He was tiny but somehow crucial at that moment.

My Lady, it has been so long . . .

Then the world hit him upside the head, and he wasn't crucial.

He was not made up to stately perfection – he had a pillow over his head, and his hair was messy.

He was not wearing his clerical robes but a simple set of worn blue pajamas he needed to replace.

He was not in a lecture hall surrounded by his fellow holy people but in bed next to his husband, Fir. Fir was a priest, servant of the war-goddess Boldira, but he didn't add up to an adoring crowd.

The bedroom had the sad cheese odor of two people who needed to do laundry.

I saw her. It felt like it was . . .

Beacon's slate vibrated; he'd turned off the temple-bell sound to alert him of divine email. He groped in the dark for his worn wooden nightstand, where the device would be charging from the day's activities. A quick tap on the screen brought it to life.

The screen lit up, information scrolling across it as it drew information from the Network that enwrapped the world of Telvaren and the other planets. In the inbox he reserved for his goddess, an email appeared, and he tapped the icon to read it.

Firilana's words manifested on the screen, complete with a smiling cartoon image of the goddess. That's right, it was that day, and maybe it wasn't a conversation with her, but it was close, and it was his.

He blinked, looking at the time on his slate.

I forgot to set the alarm.

Beacon slid out of bed quickly, hitting the button on the lamp. Somehow seeing the bedroom in its state of disarray intensified his olfactory disapproval. Had they forgotten to clean this week?

Wake up! Beacon yelled to the blanket loaf that concealed his husband.

Fir leapt out of bed and was instantly composed. Beacon always compared him to an actor: perfect short curly hair and the smoky quartz skin of a made-up master of the stage. Beacon envied his ability to never appear ungroomed, while he had to use extra product to avoid looking like an ink-dipped mop.

Did I forget to set the alarm? Fir asked, swaying slightly, adjusting his black sleeping robe.

No, I did. Or we forgot which of us was supposed to not forget.

Beacon began rooting through the closet. He and Fir almost always wore traditional robes, so separating his blue and Fir's black was easy for a man barely awake.

Where is my . . . I have to go. I have to meet with Marigold and Scintilla, Beacon said, selecting a probably-clean robe.

Isn't that more a lawyer's job?

Beacon turned around and glared at his husband. Fir wore that charming half-smile he used to make a point.

No, that was two months ago. Anyway, my Lady says there's an opportunity I need to address.

Ah, yes, it is that time. Again, Fir noted. The question was a gentle probe, trying to find more as always. There was no malice but the need for a challenge you saw in many clerics of Boldira.

Beacon felt twelve months of guilt needle his mind. He remembered when his fellow clerics warned him that marrying a fellow holy man would intertwine the divine and the personal. How had he been so good at ignoring that common sense?

He paused, checking the bundle of clothes in his arms. They have done service for my Lady, and they often find opportunities.

You mean troubles. I serve the goddess of war . . . I mean battles . . .

. . . that re-branding effort will work, Beacon said automatically, as he had to once a week for several years.

. . . and I know trouble. These long-term cases the gods assign us are taxing, dear, and you do get drawn into their schemes easily.

Several potential responses paraded through Beacon's mind. He'd used many excuses over the last few months and wondered if maybe it was time he stopped. Well, what would one more be?

I must ease their burdens for some time to come. They need me.

I wish I could ease your burdens, love, Fir said. He lifted Beacon's chin tenderly. Beacon looked into eyes – those eyes had the same look as when he'd first met him, alight with compassion.

My goddess. My duty, Beacon said, kissing Fir's fingers.

I understand, Fir answered. I know they are your friends, and I quite like them. I would appreciate knowing more. How many times have I said that?

Six, Beacon said. Then he smiled at Fir. And it may be seven or eight before they no longer need me. Professionally.

Beacon's words felt like the ash of incense in his mouth.

Fir sighed. Go off to your mystery meeting. I will be here as always. Oh, and do check on those legal forms . . .

Beacon nodded. He felt loved, guilty, and enthusiastic. Enthusiasm won out – it was what his goddess recommended.

Fir would understand. Maybe this would be the time he could tell him; perhaps they'd approve this time. Firilana was about opportunity, and you just had to find the right one when the Great Lady showed you.

Besides, he was sure Marigold and Scintilla had things under control and had suitably impressed the person who arguably managed them.

His slate pinged. He rechecked the email.

The person who oversees them is getting more suspicious. This may be bad! Or interesting! We are so close!

Beacon groaned as he read Firilana's words.

Oh, so it's actual trouble, Fir said knowingly.

Four months, Beacon thought. Just four more months and then . . . well then what? What's my opportunity?

* * *

So I have some concerns about your career were not words Scintilla liked to hear since it meant she had to start ignoring someone. Unfortunately, the person speaking the words Sub-Dean Stylus Shev-Yolan of Polestar University's Department of Critical History Instructional Deployment Subsection. She had to listen to him because he believed he was in charge of her and Marigold.

Stylus had welcomed her and Marigold into his cavernous office in the Tower of the Hunter. He had complimented them on their recent work, then said that single damnable sentence.

So I have some concerns about your career. The words echoed in Scintilla's mind like they had the dark stone walls off the office. She couldn't resent him, as Stylus could navigate Polestar University's politics, and she had to respect that until she'd learned to do so herself.

The Sub-Dean stared at them across his overlarge desk, waiting.

He was a short, broad man with gray-sandstone hair who put Scintilla in mind of a very tired lion who wanted to be dangerous but wasn't sure it'd be worth the trouble. She'd never figured his age, but there was a solid wornness to him, like a shoe that had become more comfortable over time.

Scintilla knew this was a Plan situation and thus a Marigold situation. She might be able to juggle social relationships – her work with her Union, the Reserves, and Phoenix Ascendant helped. However, Marigold did the schemes.

Was there a concern about our assignment in the Eastern Ward? Marigold led. She and Scintilla had prepared a few arguments if their misadventures had created any questions, a kind of preventative social maintenance.

No. We had one complaint about how you taught about clackermen. Still, parents just have to accept those devices prefer to kill by decapitation. By the way, good job showing off the Concise Codex of Myallon. We received excellent feedback on that and one inquiry about seminary education.

Thank you, Marigold and Scintilla said in accidental unison. Scintilla glanced at Marigold.

The Sub-Dean shuffled some papers – despite the size of his desk, he occupied only a tiny section as if it embarrassed him. For twelve months, you've lectured short-term, almost always a week. Between that, you've proven quite adept using our resources to find quite a few interesting bits, such as lost books like today or the Eye of Agmoth.

I'm sorry about the legal issues with the Eye, Marigold said with uncomfortable politeness, I know it was difficult to explain to everyone at the theater.

I didn't hit her with the chair hard enough the first time, Scintilla added.

Marigold looked at Scintilla and dismissed her concern with a gesture. I'm sorry I pinned you to the concession stand. The Eye took control of me too easy.

I forgot how thick your skull was.

The Sub-Dean shrugged and smiled sympathetically. You apologize every time that comes up. But now to the subject. You do small teaching assignments that are always good but then vanish doing Recovery work, and I know why.

Scintilla's heart thunder-thudded, and her smile turned dry-wood brittle. I know why weren't words associated with a lack of problems.

The Sub-Dean folded his hands. His voice was friendly, with a sad but sharp edge. "The recovery and hazard assignments you take on your own, especially ones not from the guild or union, are very pronounced. It's clear you're very good at digging up the past, very clear you have excellent sources about times before the War."

Sources. Stylus savored saying the word as a starving man might a morsel of food.

The phantasm of a book suddenly haunted Scintilla's mind. A red thing, all innocent on the outside and dangerous on the inside. It should have been locked away, but instead, it was under the stairway in the apartment she and Marigold shared. A source.

An edge.

Go on, please? Marigold asked. That flat, polite voice that people assumed was calm, but meant Marigold was coiled inside like a spring ready to propel a poison dart. Scintilla detected another sentence under the words: please, don't up-end my plans.

The Sub-Dean continued. You came highly recommended by your guild and your union under unusual circumstances, but unusual is our job and yours. But though you are good at relic-hunting and disarming and such, you're not good at commitment. Recoverers like yourself have trouble moving to teach as you're so used to fixing or finding dangerous things.

Scintilla felt her fear replaced by confusion, which she preferred to fear.

I can see that, Scintilla felt herself say, I mean, that's how we qualified to teach.

Of course, of course. The Sub-Dean stood and shrugged casually. "We who instruct on Techno-Mystical safety and Critical History experience the world. Connected to the world, we can teach. But it's also important to take time to connect with students. I think you need to re-focus for a time."

Scintilla wanted to argue, but she couldn't because he was right for all the wrong reasons. Unfortunately, he worked in Critical History and Techno-Mystical, and you never wanted someone like that suspicious. She was someone like that, and she knew how dangerous she was.

The Sub-Dean leaned on his desk, clearly trying to sound parental. I suggest you either take a longer teaching assignment. It will be good for your social skills. Or, if I may, some work in the Research Division to get old habits out of your system.

Unbidden, Scintilla's mind filled with images of wall charts and cluttered desks and people with hungry eyes looking at her knowingly. Research Division.

We have had several schools request you over the months, as have two people in Research, the Sub-Dean added. His paternal tone ground on Scintilla's ears since she had two parents and an extended family.

Marigold's politely frozen expression and helpless eyes told Scintilla it was time to step in. The Sub-Dean had just defenestrated Marigold's careful planning. Scintilla knew it was her time to fix broken things.

Eh, you're probably right. Let's take a bigger assignment! Scintilla said, being sure not to promise any action.

The Sub-Dean held up his slate. Oh, I'm surprised you said that. We do have a school that had you as one of their requested talents. It's a month assignment. Would that interest you?

Scintilla snapped her fingers and pointed at Marigold. Sounds good, email it to us.

Yes, Marigold broke in, we will take a look. And we'll keep your words in mind. I know you're trying to guide us. We don't want to be just typical instructors.

You are clearly not, and I wish you well, the Sub-Dean said with a worn smile. I appreciate your work on the Codex, as will those studying the post-War Theological Diaspora. Also, anything not going to the Grand Museum or the Red Vaults is appreciated.

Scintilla knew he meant it. He was a decent sort, but he had the problem of knowing enough to not know what he was ignorant of. The Sub-Dean knew so much he couldn't imagine gaps in his knowledge or what lurked in those gaps.

There was a knock at the door.

Come in, Reverend, the Sub-Dean said.

The Reverend Beacon Rindle flowed into the room, blue robes trailing behind him. The symbol of Firilana, the Golden Wheel, was displayed prominently on his chest. Scintilla knew he was trying to look impressive, but his sheepish smile damaged the whole experience.

You knew it was me? he asked the Sub-Dean.

The Sub-Dean spread his hands and smiled. "You never seem far from these two. Where is