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We did tell you it might not be what you expected, Desdemona said.
“That’s an understatement,” Penric sighed.
In many ways, Rosehall was exactly what he’d expected. The legendary roseate stone that gave the town its name glowed with rich color in the afternoon light, and the university buildings stood in dignified ivy-clad splendor on one of the town’s several hills. The university quarter was full of students and learned divines bustling about their business, united in a cheerful camaraderie of robed men and women. Penric had been enthralled. Better yet, his unformed daydreams of what the great university might be like, in which he had much indulged in on the road from Martensbridge, had not quite encompassed so many bookshops. The streets were practically lined with them, offering wares ranging from learned tomes to popular romances on shelves facing the street, and many of the shops had their own copyists, so a person could order a volume copied to order, or even bring in one’s own exemplar. The bookshops had had Penric so enthralled that he had nearly walked into a staid, august fellow in black robes, and had had to hastily apologize for the mishap.
The Bastard’s seminary was another story altogether. The seminary as a whole was quiet, modest structure tucked away inconspicuously in the edge of the university quarter, as if not wanting to draw too much attention to itself. Which was probably true, Penric reflected. Oh, his quarters were pleasant enough, simple but adequate, and private, which was a boon of its own.
He just had hoped for rather more of a welcome.
News of their arrival – and of Penric’s, er, condition – must have traveled ahead of them, for the other students had greeted him with gazes ranging from wary to resentful, and they were all of them keeping their distance so far. Pen supposed he shouldn’t blame them, as most of them aspired to the state he had already, if accidentally, achieved. One youth of about Pen’s own age had gone so far as to declare petulantly that the entire situation was unjust, before being summoned from the room by one of the tutors.
Of course you can blame them, Desdemona said. They’re being rude and short-sighted.
“Maybe none of this lot will try to murder me,” Pen muttered under his breath.
One can always hope for it, Desdemona said dryly. But we are not without resources.
Pen felt a surge of heat, and when he turned around, found a many-legged creature suddenly gone still on the floor. He shuddered, and said glumly, “Maybe I can hire myself out to get rid of vermin.”
Desdemona chuckled, seeming not at all displeased at the thought.
Pen sighed and looked around his spare quarters: bed, desk, and shelf, already supplied with books he was meant to study in tutorials. It seemed only too clear that the seminary studies he’d been promised might last quite a long time indeed. The Saint of Idau had suggested that the Bastard had some use, or some plan, for Pen and Desdemona yet, but he could not for the life of him see what it was over the stacks of books he was meant to master before they let him go anywhere, or do anything, at all.
#
This is dull.
“Des,” Pen hissed under his breath, both grateful and exasperated. He was grateful that Desdemona no longer needed to speak out of his mouth, but he had not, alas, mastered silent speech himself. Exasperated, because that lack of mastery put him at a decided disadvantage at moments like this.
Besides, she was distracting from his very first university lecture, and the learned divine, stout and impressive in his black robes, was intoning some doubtless wise insights on the reign of Great Audar and the history of relations between Darthaca and the Weald, but Pen had utterly lost the thread of it. Meanwhile, all around him the rest of the students were diligently scribbling away, the scratching of their quills the only sound audible beneath the master’s resonant voice.
This is quite tedious. We have had all this already.
“Well, I haven’t,” he muttered. Barely audible, but the student at his right shot him a disapproving look, and Pen sank back in the hard seat, quelled.
You might as well learn all this from books. Or ask us.
Pen bit his lip, trying desperately to think his reply instead of stating it out loud. He knew perfectly well Desdemona had no desire to recite all this lore to him, and so did she.
Very well, since it is so important to you.
She subsided, and Pen took up his quill in relief, trying to catch the thread of the lecture again. He was sufficiently engrossed in this task for some minutes that it took him some time to notice that he was growing warm – a little too warm, considering that the room was tolerably cool. What was Desdemona doing?
The heat surged and dissipated. In the row in front of him, he could see a chair begin to wobble as its owner rocked back and forth, and then it collapsed with a crash. The student in question yelped as he hit the floor, and the lecturer stopped short, peering over his spectacles.
Ahhh.
Pen shrank in his seat, biting back the urge to apologize. What did you do? he managed silently.
You know perfectly well we must bleed off a little energy now and then.
#
“This text states that force of will is crucial to a sorcerer’s success,” said Tolwin, scanning the page with a look of concentration.
“Yes, so it is said,” agreed Learned Umbert. “If not, the demon’s will surpasses the sorcerer’s, the demon becomes ascendant, and may do as it wishes with the sorcerer’s body and their powers.” His eyes were half-shut as he contemplated this tutorial session, full of the newest students at the seminary, and he sounded bored, rather as if he had spent far too many years teaching such basic lessons to aspiring sorcerers and divines. It still wasn’t clear to Penric precisely how a person was ordinarily chosen to receive a demon.
Desdemona might have offered some insight into that procedure, but she had lapsed into silence. If she found university lectures boring, she seemed to find the seminary instruction even more stultifying. Pen wasn’t sure whether it was because she was already acquainted with the material or because she disliked being talked about. He also couldn’t quite tell whether she was dormant at the moment – there was a sullen, sulky quality to the silence, he thought, which suggested she was aware of the conversation.
“So how is one to do it?” asked Ingrid, the only woman in their cohort. “How does one... develop the necessary strength of will?” She frowned at the text.
“You have it or you don’t,” said Dalgen, the remaining student in their group. “I wager some people have what it takes to control a demon, and others never will. If you don’t have it, how can you possibly gain it?”
“That’s what I asked,” Ingrid said tartly.
“That’s an interesting wager, young Dalgen,” said Umbert. “And a wager the Temple makes every time it allows a demon pass from one Temple-sworn sorcerer to another.”
“But the important thing is control,” Dalgen continued, looking pleased with himself. “To master the demon.”
“But what about—” Pen said before he thought, and then stopped himself. He was supposed to be a student here.
Every eye turned toward him anyway. The students’ expressions ranged from wary to disgruntled. They all knew who he was, after all. Learned Umbert, however, perked up for the first time since the tutorial had begun. “Yes, Penric?”
Pen swallowed. Desdemona seemed, still, disinclined to speech, leaving him on his own. “I was going to say, what about cooperation? What if your will and the demon’s will are in accord?”
“What, indeed?” Umbert sounded delighted. “Then there’s no difficulty, is there?”
“That can’t always be the case, though,” Ingrid said.
“Perhaps not, but surely there’s...” Pen tried to find the words to say what he meant. “...one could try persuasion, or coaxing, or discussion, or any number of other things. After all, if one disagrees with a friend, one isn’t meant to control them, surely?”
All three of the other students blinked.
“But demons aren’t people,” said Dalgen, as if that were obvious.
“Are they?” Learned Umbert asked, sounding even more interested. “They have will, assuredly, and intellect. Not much in their earliest forms, but infant children have not the wit of grown adults, either.”
Ingrid frowned, looking disquieted.
Not all grown adults have much wit, Desdemona said.
Pen found himself relieved, a little bit, that she had decided to break her silence, even though she sounded decidedly grumpy still.
“Surely demons are better thought of as something like beasts,” said Dalgen.
For example.
“Even then,” said Tolwin, eyes brightening. “We always hear of sorcerers and their demons as riders and mounts – or, for a possessed person with the demon ascendant, the reverse. But even then, it’s a harsh rider who guides his horse only with whip and spur, isn’t it? A horse has a mind of its own, too, and the best horsemen know how to work with their mounts.”
“That’s merely a metaphor,” Dalgen, looking put out.
“But all we have are metaphors,” said Ingrid. “Whenever we read theology, it’s metaphors, because the realm of spirit is ineffable.”
Desdemona, in the privacy of Penric’s head, made a rude noise.
Tolwin was nodding, however. “If we can’t understand these things with our mortal senses, we must rely on metaphor.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Learned Umbert, folding his hands. “It seems to me we stand in danger of drifting from the question posed, however.”
Tolwin immediately said, “And I think it worth considering Penric’s point, as well as the horse and rider metaphor. Perhaps it’s a mistake to think just in terms of dominance. The best riders understand their mounts and work with them.”
Penric sat back as the argument continued. Across the room, Umbert sat upright, pleased and nodding.
Hm. We shall see if any of them learn. Desdemona sounded more pleased, if grudgingly so.
#
“So... your demon is a lady?” said Tolwin a few days later, coming up to Pen in the refectory.
Well, some of us were.
Pen must have made a face, as Tolwin’s expression faltered, and he said, “I’m sorry if it’s not polite to ask.”
“No! No, it’s quite all right,” Pen said hastily. If one of his fellow students were inclined toward friendly curiosity, he did not with to discourage him.
“It’s just, you say she when you speak of your demon, so...”
“Yes, I do. She, ah...” Pen considered. “All of her former riders were women. Well. There was a mare, and a lioness.”
“Fascinating.” Tolwin sat down. “What is that like?”
None of his fellow seminary students had really asked about Desdemona before. They all knew she existed, and they knew he had acquired her rather by accident. Ingrid seemed almost affronted by the whole affair, and Dalgen hardly deigned to notice him at all.
Desdemona sighed while Pen, caught off guard, pondered the question. What a ridiculously vague question, she remarked. How is one to come up with a sensible answer to that?
“Er,” Pen said. “It’s strange to share with another... being, of course...”
Tolwin nodded nodded earnestly while Pen tried to explain without going into too many awkward details. He found himself talking a lot about books and languages and things he’d learned from Desdemona, while trying to skirt around anything that might make him sound dangerous or difficult.
You’re rambling, Desdemona informed him.
“... so, she’s really been quite helpful,” Pen said, winding himself down as best he could.
Desdemona snorted.
“That’s astounding,” Tolwin said, all agog. “I’ve never mastered Cedonian. Never even looked at Roknari. So you really can learn from your demon, then? I’d heard that, but...”
“You can,” Pen said.
“Do you feel like you’ve learned anything else from her? Especially, ah...” He fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the table. “... being a female and all, does that give you any insight into... other ladies?”
Desdemona started to laugh, hard enough that Penric couldn’t stop a quick burst of laughter from escaping his mouth, and had to clamp his lips shut to keep from continuing.
“Well,” he said, doing his best to keep the laugh from bubbling out. “I’ve... learned this and that. Become much handier with a needle.”
Oh, let me answer, Desdemona said, gleeful, and:
“Women are hardly all the same, you know,” Pen found himself saying, waspishly.
Tolwin blinked at him. Pen blinked back. “That was Desdemona,” he added hastily.
“Ah.” Tolwin’s eyes shifted from side to side, and then he raised one hand and waggled his fingers. “Hello, Desdemona.”
Desdemona snorted again.
“So you don’t have any special insights about how to... win over a lady, then?” Tolwin looked a bit crestfallen.
I can make sure you know how to please a lady in the bedroom, at least, but I don’t see why I should lend him any assistance.
Pen’s face grew hot. He cast about for something more useful to say. “I think what she meant to say, perhaps, is... pay attention to the particular lady?” Pen suggested.
Tolwin reddened a little. “Quite. So, ah... Desdemona? You’ve named her, then?”
“It only seemed... appropriate, if we were to be... going on,” Pen said. “I wouldn’t much like to be called simply ‘demon,’ would you?”
“Hm.” Tolwin looked thoughtful. “I suppose I wouldn’t.”
Look at that. There may be hope for this one yet, Desdemona said, and Pen chose not to convey the sarcasm.
#
“And how are you and your demon finding the seminary?” asked Learned Lena.
Taken aback, Penric blinked at her. Learned Lena, so far as he could gather, was his own tutor’s superior, and seemed highly placed in the seminary. When she had called him into her private study, he had been bracing for an interrogation, or some kind of test, or perhaps criticism of the paper he was working on for Umbert. Anything but a seemingly mild inquiry into his welfare. There had been little enough such concern over the past few weeks. “Well enough,” he said cautiously. “I believe I’m... adjusting.”
“Good,” she said, just as mildly. “And your demon?”
Pen hesitated before opening his mouth, not entirely sure what to say about Desdemona, but she took over before he had gathered his wits. “The studies are tedious,” she said, “but we knew they would be.”
Pen hastened to add: “Not so tedious as to pose any, er, danger.” He could imagine all too well what sort of hazard a bored sorcerer might pose. He had been learning that, too, over the last few weeks, how to get rid of excessive energy by lighting a candle, or some other small thing.
Learned Lena gave him a tolerant smile. “I was acquainted with Learned Ruchia. Given what I know of both of you, I was not expecting casual malice. I’m glad to see you finding your footing, though. It seemed best to allow you to do that on your own.”
“You might have mentioned you knew her,” Pen found himself blurting – to Desdemona rather than Lena, but of course it was out loud, so he had to add, “I’m, ah, speaking to Desdemona, Learned.”
“Ruchia knew all sorts of people,” Desdemona retorted in turn, managing to sound bored somehow.
Pen shut his mouth as Lena laughed gently, leaning back in her comfortable-looking chair. “It is an interesting match between demon and sorcerer.”
Pen fidgeted. “Learned Tigney thought I’d never be able to keep control of her,” he confessed. He couldn’t help but be a little anxious about Tigney’s opinion, in spite of everything he’d seen of the former sorcerer.
Learned Lena’s plump face turned serious. “I don’t wish to utterly discount Tigney’s experience of being a sorcerer,” she said, “but it is rather a limited one. It makes him cautious, sometimes overly so. As for you and — what have you called your demon? Desdemona? That’s pretty — well, time will tell, won’t it?”
“You’re not concerned I might end up possessed, and do harm?” Pen asked.
Lena pursed her lips and considered a moment. “Let’s say, rather, that I don’t share Tigney’s belief that every sorcerer is in a constant battle of wills with their demon.”
“I suggested that, in the tutorial,” Pen said after a moment.
“So I heard.” Lena smiled. “I’m glad you raised that point of discussion. There are things we know with some certainty about demons and their magics, but it is a mistake to think we understand everything there is to know. Questions are always worth asking.”
Pen was not sure what to make of that, so he stayed still. She did not seem to expect a response, adding shortly, “For example, Desdemona herself has passed from female to female, the last four of those transfers supervised by the Temple. We would always have matched her to a woman, as the most appropriate thing to do. But it seems that was not so, no? Perhaps you wanted a change, Desdemona?”
As Pen shifted in his chair, Desdemona said, “Perhaps. It becomes tiresome to always do the same thing. As with the worms.” He felt his own lip curl, involuntarily.
Learned Lena laughed. “Ah, yes. I remember your aversion coming up in conversation with Ruchia.”
Pen said, hesitantly, “But I had thought to undertake a study of medicine, perhaps.”
Lena raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? Well, perhaps, in due time. What does Desdemona think of that?”
“We hope he changes his mind,” she said shortly.
Pen said, “It’s only –” and hesitated.
The learned divine tilted her head expectantly. “Yes?”
“The Saint of Idau said the Bastard had some purpose for us, for Desdemona and me.” He could practically feel Desdemona shivering at the mere thought of the encounter. “That’s why he didn’t take her from me. So I thought to find some way to serve...” He trailed off, uncertainly.
Lena nodded, slowly. “The practice of medicine is a valuable way for a sorcerer to serve.”
Desdemona sighed. Loudly.
The corner of Lena’s mouth turned up. “But hardly the only one. Indeed, I think you serve a purpose simply by being among us here.”
“Really?” Pen asked doubtfully.
“Many of the seminarians aspire to be sorcerers. Not all of them will become so, of course, but all of them will have cause to encounter sorcerers. It is well for them to encounter a sorcerer now, early in their training, and to do so as a peer. It gives them the opportunity to think through what they are taught, and perhaps to unlearn a thing or two.”
“Oh.” It did not seem a particularly high purpose, merely to serve as a teaching object, but Penric hardly dared to say so.
Learned Lena might have caught the drift of thinking anyway, for she smiled tolerantly. “But never fear, you are only at the beginning of your own studies. I am no saint, but remember that our Lord Bastard—” she brought her fingers to her mouth “—is the master of small things, of tilting the balance. The thumb on the scales, so to speak.” She touched her thumb to the tip of her tongue, still smiling. “I have little doubt that His purpose shall come to you in its own time, and likely all unexpected.”
Pen thought back to that Presence he had sensed within, or behind, the saint. Desdemona was silent, still shaken and wary. Pen could no longer remember it quite properly, he thought; there was too much, and not enough words, and the impression had been difficult enough before it started fading in his memory. But in considering it, he realized he could not doubt Lena’s words, or the thought that the Bastard’s plan might be beyond what he could understand. He said, “I think I understand.”
“Do you?” Her smile turned sharp. “Few enough of us understand the workings of our Gods. But when that purpose comes, I pray that the Bastard looks after you both.” Her expression gentled again. “He seems to have done so thus far, at least.”