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"I don't, entirely, but I'm learning the importance of heritage."

He extended his hand, and they clasped wrists like comrades never parted. "You won't come to regret this," Andris vowed.

"No need. I regret it already," his friend retorted, only half in jest.

The corridor ended in a locked gate. Matteo raised his voice to hail the guards. A small battalion promptly clattered up. Matteo singled out the man wearing a commander's insignia.

"You will release this man," he stated.

The guard bristled. "On what authority?"

Matteo merely lifted one brow, an imperious gesture that prompted Andris to swallow a smirk. The guard dipped his head in a nervous bow. "I do not presume to argue with the king's counselor, but this man just tried to escape!"

"I obtained his word that he will not escape from me. Did you?"

The guard opened his mouth, then closed it in a thin-lipped grimace. "No," he said after a moment.

Matteo nodded pointedly at the door. The guards set about unchaining the locks and removing the magical wards.

"You do that very well," Andris murmured as they strode down the corridor. A hint of his old twinkle had returned to his translucent hazel eyes, and shades of their former camaraderie added an amused edge to his voice.

Matteo sent him a sidelong glance. "My skills seem to be improving. I never thought the day would come when I could outsmart Andris. And with a trestle table! It is said that a man is equal to the weapon that fells him."

The ghostly jordain snorted. "Go ahead. Enjoy the moment."

"I intend to! At this rate, I will soon be able to best you in battle."

Andris's smile returned in full. "As a wise man recently observed, keep repeating that thought. If words truly have power, they might eventually turn into reality."

Chapter Five

The aroma of strange herbs filled the air, and the soft music of reed flutes and long-necked stringed instruments followed Matteo down the corridor of the greenmage's domain, a wing of the palace where the palace servants and courtiers sought healing.

Matteo paused at an open door and gazed for a long time at the big man who lay, propped up with pillows, in a narrow bed. Themo, Matteo's jordaini friend and classmate, was finally awake after a long and unnaturally deep slumber. His eyes were open and focused, and he gazed out the window with a reflective air.

Matteo tapped on the doorframe. "The king's counselor, come to call,"

Themo said without looking over.

A smile pulled at the corners of the jordain's lips. "How did you know?"

"You're the only one who knocks. The green-mages burst in at all hours like rampaging orcs."

"At least you haven't lacked for company." Matteo came in and set his gift, a small bottle of golden haerlu wine, on the bedside table.

Themo seized the bottle and pulled out the cork with his teeth, then took a long pull. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"You were speaking of orcs and their manners?" Matteo teased in a dry tone.

The big jordain shrugged. "I'd better hammer while the forge burns and the iron is hot. You know how the jordaini masters can be about wine."

Matteo sat down in the room's only chair. "You seem resigned to returning to the Jordaini College."

"Have I any choice?"

The question was rhetorical, but Matteo answered it anyway. "Follow your heart, and become a warrior rather than a counselor."

Surprise widened Themo's eyes. "This is possible?"

"It is uncommon, but not entirely unknown. A dispensation from Zalathorm would free you from your vows." Matteo looked keenly at the somber-faced man.

"I thought you would be pleased by this prospect."

Themo threw aside the covers and paced over to the window. He propped his hands on the sill as if he could not bear, unsupported, the weight he carried.

"I'm not sure I'm meant to be a warrior."

"That's a strange sentiment from the best fighter to come out of the Jordaini College this decade."

The jordain let out a short burst of humorless laughter. "Truth,