Miles Berington's Story

Miles hesitated for a moment as the great steel doors opened.

Don't tarry, boy. Enter the room. It'd be better to talk face to face.

It was the High Magister speaking in his mind, he knew that, but he couldn't stop himself from flinching. Only Joseph had done that before, and only once. It wasn't a very pleasant experience, needless to say.

He stepped into the brightly-lit room, with its mahogany furniture, but it was possible that most of it was just an illusion.

"Welcome," a voice murmured, and out of the corner of the room stepped a young man in black robes. But then the image shifted, distorted, melted and changed into that of a tall, proud, bearded old man with a shock of white hair. He smiled. "I like this form myself. I copied it from Arigmus." The High Magister looked into a nearby mirror. "Aptly named the White, I see."

Miles was at a loss for words. "I ... I ... I was sent to report to you. Sir. M'lord." he added hastily, stumbling over his words.

"Yes. And what have you to report?"

"I ... there are new students. Two. An elementalist and an illusionist. I'm sure that master Petell and master Lorenzo have made them at home.

The High Magister nodded. "Yes, two ... no, three. Another is here. I can sense it. More are coming. More." The mage's eyes seemed to almost glaze over, but he caught himself. "If that is all, boy, then please proceed to your room. I will send someone to summon you to my chambers when the time comes."

Miles nodded, bowed, and left the room, the door shutting firmly behind him. He managed a sigh of relief, then hurried down the steps to his chambers.