Inside the circular chamber atop the northern tower of the Ravenry, William sat beside a table buried beneath books and scrolls.
Across from him sat Marwyn, a man who looked far more like the leader of a criminal gang than a maester.
The archmaester was flipping through something resembling a book, though it was tiny, scarcely larger than his palm.
Stacks of books littered the floor.
Tattered maps hung from the stone walls.
A copper kettle atop the hearth gave off the unmistakable smell of something burning.
William rubbed his nose and glanced out into the courtyard.
The enormous weirwood tree that dominated the entire space was crowded with ravens, their constant cawing grating on his nerves.
Though he could not see it from this angle, he could never shake the feeling that the carved face on the trunk was watching him.
At last, Marwyn closed the little book and set it down in the empty space at the center of the table.
“That,” he said, “is why you’ve failed to forge a Valyrian steel link.” William laughed awkwardly.
He had no response.
Although one man was nicknamed the Mage and the other the Magic Knight, giving the impression that William was Marwyn’s prized student, the truth was very different.
William’s reason for studying under Marwyn had always been practical.
The warlocks from Qarth had taught him spells, and he wanted answers.
Were there hidden side effects?
Had the warlocks withheld anything?
Why did some spells work while others failed?
Once he had mastered the Qartheen system of spellcraft, he had rarely visited Marwyn at all.
As for the title “Magic Knight,” it had originally been nothing more than a joke among the knights he defeated in tournaments.
The nickname had simply happened to hit closer to the truth than anyone realized.
As William continued winning tourneys across the Reach, the name spread further and further.
A youth his age displaying such skill seemed almost supernatural.
Their personal relationship was never particularly close.
William had never sensed magical power from Marwyn himself, yet years of hearing conspiracy theories about the Citadel had left him instinctively wary of the archmaester.
Marwyn, perceptive as ever, undoubtedly sensed that caution.
He had no intention of currying favor with a student who kept him at arm’s length.
As a result, their relationship remained that of teacher and pupil.
Nothing more.
Had the warlocks been capable of deciphering the notebook themselves, William probably would never have brought it to Marwyn.
“This is indeed a notebook concerning sorcery.” Marwyn tapped the tiny volume.
“The diagrams are runes.
Explaining them properly would take far longer than a conversation.” He pointed toward a towering stack of books in the corner.
“Read those.
When you’ve finished, you’ll understand.” William followed his finger.
There were at least ten massive volumes.
His head immediately started hurting.
“As for the remaining text,” Marwyn continued, “it has little to do with magic.
It appears to be a cipher invented by the author.
Still, it isn’t impossible to crack.
You should speak with Archmaester Osric.
Languages are his specialty.” “Archmaester Osric?” William nearly groaned.
Marwyn truly practiced what he preached about objectivity.
Osric was famous throughout the Citadel for his disdain toward magic.
Marwyn himself was barely tolerated in some circles.
If William marched into Osric’s chambers carrying a sorcerer’s notebook, he might get chased out with a broom.
His gaze drifted toward the heavy chains hanging around Marwyn’s thick, bull-like neck.
For a moment he hesitated.
Thoughts of his father and sister finally won out.
“Archmaester,” William said respectfully, “my situation is somewhat urgent.
Could you offer a more direct suggestion?” Marwyn pushed aside a book and retrieved a packet of sourleaf hidden beneath it.
“They call you the Magic Knight, William.” He pulled out a leaf and placed it into his mouth.
After chewing thoughtfully, he continued.
“Then understand this.
Mystical power is like a blade.
Arcane knowledge is the hilt.
Only by grasping the hilt can one truly wield the sword.” William silently weighed the consequences of revealing everything.
His unexplained magic.
The curse hanging over Harrenhal.
All of it.
After a long pause, he bowed his head.
“Thank you for your guidance, Archmaester.
If I encounter difficulties, I’ll seek your counsel again.” No matter how unconventional Marwyn appeared, he was still part of the Citadel.
If even half of Marwyn’s claims about the Citadel seeking a world without magic were true, then the loyalties of an archmaester remained impossible to predict.
Marwyn merely nodded.
His expression revealed nothing.
When William pushed open the heavy oak-and-iron door, he found Leo Tyrell lounging outside with a book in hand.
Today Leo wore green-and-gold striped silk.
At the sound of the door, he looked up.
Seeing William burdened beneath an armful of books, a mischievous grin spread across his handsome face.
“Well, well.
Have you finally decided to become a genuine Magic Knight?” Leo’s sharp tongue had become famous from the day he arrived at the Citadel.
Most acolytes endured his mockery because they feared either his noble birth or his skill with a sword.
William feared neither.
“And you’ve remained a genuine lazybones,” William shot back.
Leo chuckled and returned to his reading.
When they first met, they had tested each other thoroughly, first with words, then with fists.
Since then, Leo rarely went beyond harmless teasing.
William shrugged and carried his books away.
A shaft of sunlight filtered through layers of leaves and spilled into the study of William’s house.
Standing by the window, he read a letter.
Nearby, Glop and Moken sat at a large table covered in books and notes, quietly discussing their research.
Open pages displayed intricate symbols.
Dense annotations in High Valyrian covered every margin.
A normal reader would probably become dizzy after a single glance.
After finishing the letter, William rolled it shut and fell silent.
It was from Lord Walter Whent.
His father had once again rejected William’s invitation to visit Oldtown.
The reason was simple.
The water-powered workshops at Harrenhal were performing spectacularly.
Walter was thrilled.
He planned to expand production even further.
If the workshops continued growing, their output might eventually equal all of House Whent’s traditional income combined.
That would restore nearly seventy percent of the family’s former strength without acquiring a single acre of land.
The letter also mentioned efforts to contact former retainers and rebuild House Whent’s military forces.
William welcomed both developments.
But as long as Walter and Minisa remained at Harrenhal, danger still hung over them like a sword.
Unexpected.
Who would’ve thought industrialization would create this particular side effect?
I need results.
Fast.
Since neither William nor the warlocks could decipher the notebook’s script, they had shifted focus toward the runes.
Their reasoning was straightforward.
If the text merely explained the runes, then understanding the runes would eventually reveal everything else.
Unfortunately, things had not gone according to plan.
Three days had passed since his visit to Marwyn.
Thanks to Recovery, William had practically abandoned sleep.
He devoured all ten volumes.
Found nothing.
Worse, the more he read, the more questions appeared.
Twice he returned to the Citadel.
Twice he borrowed additional books.
Nearly twenty more volumes, far beyond normal borrowing limits.
In the end, he had quietly slipped a pouch of silver stags to an acolyte overseeing the library.
The warlocks were delighted.
To them, every new piece of knowledge was exciting.
William saw only wasted time.
Time he could not afford.
No wonder Marwyn looked so calm when I left.
He knew I’d come back eventually.
Looks like I’ll have to tell him about Harrenhal.
As for everything else…
His eyes drifted toward the two warlocks buried in their studies.
I’ll blame it all on them.
He gathered the rune sketches spread across his desk.
These were copies he and the warlocks had painstakingly reproduced from the notebook.
If his next discussion with Marwyn went well, he intended to leave the sketches behind while keeping possession of the original notebook.
After preparing everything, he bid farewell to the warlocks.
Ragnor respectfully saw him out.
Before long, William was riding through Oldtown once more.
At the crossroads near the Honeywine River, the road divided.
Crossing the great stone bridge led toward the grand guild halls.
The Hightower lay to the left.
The Citadel to the right.
William turned left.
He still owed Garth Hightower a training session.
At this point, those meetings were less about improving William’s actual combat ability and more about reassuring Garth that his squire remained alive, healthy, and reasonably sane.
Still irritated by his previous defeat, Illyn immediately challenged him.
Garth approved.
The duel began.
Once again, soldiers gathered to watch.
Recovery could heal fatigue.
It could not replace sleep.
After three straight days without proper rest, William felt strangely detached.
Not tired.
Yet desperately sleepy.
Ever since entering the Hightower, he had felt as though he were walking through a dream.
His defensive instincts still functioned.
His attacks did not.
The match resembled a practice drill more than a duel.
Eventually, constant defense gave way to a mistake.
Illyn seized the opening and knocked William flat onto his back.
The instant he touched the ground, drowsiness crashed over him like a wave.
He did not want to move.
Not even a little.
William immediately raised a hand.
“I yield.” Garth interpreted this as a deliberate training exercise and nodded approvingly.
Amid the soldiers’ laughter, Illyn pulled him to his feet.
“William.
I’ve decided.
The next tournament, I’m entering.” William lacked the energy to discourage him.
He could only smile and silently wish his friend luck.
After changing clothes and saying farewell to Garth, William headed toward the Citadel.
Halfway through the corridor, however, he stopped.
White clouds drifted overhead.
A pleasant breeze brushed against his face.
Suddenly, he no longer wanted to walk anywhere.
Instead, he settled against a broad stone railing and stretched out comfortably.
Just a short rest.
Nothing more.
After a while, boredom set in.
He pulled out the copied rune sheets and began studying them again.
Such a shame.
If even one of these runes reacted to my magic the way spells do, I could at least guess their purpose from the response.
He tried channeling magic into the paper.
Nothing happened.
Then, somewhere between waking and sleep, movement caught the corner of his eye.
A familiar scent drifted through the air.
The unmistakable smell of strange potions.
Malora.
William jolted awake.
He stuffed the rune pages back into his satchel and vaulted over the railing.
Without hesitation, he headed in the opposite direction.
After several steps, he noticed something odd.
She wasn’t following him.
Frowning, William looked back.
Malora stood where he had been resting only moments before.
One of the rune sheets was in her hands and she was studying it very carefully.