Tempests and Slaughter. Tamora Pierce

where Ozorne did: a proctor was pointing to their table.

      An older student trotted over to them, waving a length of parchment. ‘Arram Draper?’ he asked when he was close enough to be heard. Ozorne and Varice pointed to Arram. ‘With Headmaster Cosmas’s regards,’ the messenger said, handing his parchment to Arram. ‘You poor young cluck.’

      ‘If you peeked at that you’d know he’s no cluck!’ Varice shouted after him as the messenger hurried off. She took the parchment from Arram, who did not protest. He would never snatch anything away from her. Only when she and Ozorne had got a thorough look at it did they hand it to Arram: it was his new schedule for the remainder of the term.

      He winced. The masters had not been jesting when they had said they were going to make him work. Looking at his afternoon’s studies, he squeaked, ‘I’ll be bored to death!’

      ‘Not unless the masters say you can die,’ Ozorne replied with a chuckle. ‘Cheer up, my lad. Varice and I have this class with you, and this one. I have this one, and I took these two last term, so you can use my notes.’

      ‘You can use my notes for this one,’ Varice added, pointing. ‘And I have these two with you. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.’

      ‘And we can study together,’ Ozorne said cheerfully.

      Ozorne also introduced him to the back halls and hidden shortcuts that got them places faster. He showed Arram the university’s many hidden shrines to varied gods, where the friends left small gifts in thanks to the Great Mother; to Mithros, the god of men, boys, and scholars; and to the Black God, who oversaw not only death but also the arts of the mage. In his previous three years Arram had not learned as much about the university as he did with Ozorne and Varice.

      One early November night he flung himself onto his bed and went to sleep, leaving the shutters wide open for any bit of cool air that might happen by. As a result, he was roused from his dreams when something dropped onto his face.

      His teachers in animal studies all said that animals acted in two ways: fight or flight. Most of the boys boldly proclaimed they were fighters, while they sat at their desks on a bright day. Arram discovered that night that he did neither. Instead he froze as the small creature slapped him repeatedly with a leathery wing.

      Slowly, with shaking hands and the greatest of care, he lifted it from his face. It scolded in the softest of squeaks. That and the wings told him that his visitor was a bat. Gently he rose and placed it on his bed, leaving it to flutter there. He’d already noticed that one of the wings wasn’t working. Groping in the dim light of the half moon, he found his candle and flint. Within seconds, he had light enough to see clearly.

      His two-inch visitor had broken a wing. This was beyond his skills. He found a basket and placed an old shirt in the bottom, then eased the bat inside as it continued to scold him. It settled somewhat after he took his hands away, quivering as it glared up at him.

      ‘You’ll be all right,’ Arram assured it as he covered the basket with the shirtsleeves. ‘I’m sure there’s someone who can patch you up. Just be patient.’ Arram dressed quickly and pulled on his sandals.

      ‘What are you doing over there?’ Ozorne complained sleepily. ‘Don’t tell me you talk in your sleep now.’

      ‘Oh, good, you’re awake,’ Arram replied. He carried the basket over to Ozorne’s cubicle, nearly tripping on a stack of books. He yelped. ‘Someday you’re going to break a bone this way.’

      ‘Why? I know where I left them.’ In the dim light from Ozorne’s open window, Arram saw his friend make a twisted hand gesture. The candles on his desk lit.

      ‘We’re not allowed to do that,’ Arram said wistfully. He in particular was forbidden to do anything of the kind without supervision.

      ‘Why? Do you think you’ll make your room explode?’ Ozorne looked at Arram, who was tidying the cloth on top of the bat. ‘Mithros save us, you do think you’ll destroy your room.’

      ‘It was a shed,’ Arram mumbled. ‘And then a pile of old crates. And then they wouldn’t let me work any basic fire spells without a certified mage being present.’ He gulped. ‘They say I’ll grow out of it.’

      ‘Horse eggs,’ Ozorne retorted. ‘You just need the right teacher.’

      ‘They say I need to meditate more and control my Gift,’ Arram explained. ‘But never mind me. This little thing is hurt. Can you help?’

      ‘“Little thing”? What have you got? It had better not be a snake.’ Ozorne carefully raised the shirtsleeves covering Arram’s discovery. ‘A bat!’ He lifted the small animal and inspected her belly. ‘A girl bat, see? You really ought to release her.’

      ‘No, look – her left wing is broken. It has to be splinted, and she has to be kept quiet. Put her back, please? I’ll get in trouble if she’s in our room—’

      Ozorne raised a finger. At last he said, ‘Shoo for a moment. Let me get dressed. We’ll take her to Master Lindhall.’

      Arram returned to his mattress, murmuring reassurances to his bat. She had a long muzzle tipped with a pair of nostrils that pointed in different directions. Before he covered her again, he saw that her fur was a dark cinnamon in colour. Her long ears pointed straight up.

      She was the first animal who had come his way in a long time. He wanted so badly to keep her! In his first year he had smuggled in a tortoise and several lizards to live under his bed, only to get caught by the proctors. Away went his pets, and he was assigned extra schoolwork for punishment.

      ‘Won’t we get in trouble?’ he asked his friend softly.

      ‘Nonsense,’ Ozorne said cheerfully. ‘We’re doing a merciful deed. No one can fault us for rescuing a wounded creature. How did she come to you?’

      ‘She landed on my face.’

      Ozorne was grinning when he joined Arram. ‘I don’t know if your luck is good or bad,’ he whispered as he opened the door. ‘It’s certainly interesting.’ He gestured for quiet, and they tiptoed out of the building.

      He led Arram past the dormitories used by the Upper Academy students, who were studying for their mages’ certificates, and the mastery students, who had certificates and now worked on specializations. Torches lit the way. There were always people in the libraries and workrooms, whatever the hour.

      Beyond the student dormitories lay buildings for instructors and those masters who were teachers. One of these lay on the southernmost road within university property. Ozorne led him inside, up to the top floor, and down a softly lit hall.

      Arram sniffed. The corridor smelled like … plants. And animals. Like the aviary, or an enclosed wing at the menagerie.

      Ozorne knocked on a door. ‘I hope I can wake him,’ he told Arram over his shoulder. ‘If he’s been away he’s hard to rouse. Otherwise we’ll have to try his student, and he’s a pain. …’

      The door opened abruptly; Ozorne nearly fell in. A light, breathy voice said, ‘It’s the young fellow who’s good with birds. What is so urgent that you must deny me my sleep, Prince Ozorne?’

      Ozorne waved Arram forward. ‘My friend has a hurt bat, Master Lindhall.’

      ‘A bat, is it?’

      Arram looked up at Master Lindhall. He’d really thought they’d find one of the master’s student helpers, not the man himself – the man who had said Arram was much too young to study with him. Lindhall inspected him with bright blue eyes. ‘Come in, come in. Quietly – my assistant is asleep.’ He took Arram’s basket and retreated into his rooms.

      ‘Come along,’ Ozorne whispered when Arram hesitated. ‘Don’t you want to see where he lives?’

      They followed the master through a sitting room that doubled as a library. Shelves heavy with books seemed to lean from the walls, ready to