Wizards’ Tower, I thank you for your kindness to our Apprentice.” He made Blaise bow her head again, but the hard lines around his eyes softened minutely when she scowled at him and tried to pat her hair back in place.
Myth enjoyed visiting Blaise in the Wizards’ Tower for this very reason—it was always heartwarming to see the more senior wizards simultaneously fret and preen over Blaise, who was mostly oblivious to their odd flavor of delight in her.
The Translators’ Circle wasn’t nearly so open or affectionate. Myth couldn’t recall any of her teachers or advisors acting with such affection. Myth was just one of a few apprentices. Sometimes she regretted it when watching Blaise and the other wizards, but it wasn’t in her power to change it.
“May you both enjoy your moment of peace.” The senior wizard smiled benevolently at Myth, then shook a finger at Blaise. “Do not attempt any more magic today. Wizard Edvin is still getting over his sneezing fit.”
“I didn’t know the elven Pep-pear fruit was so potent, or I wouldn’t have tried to use so much of it in my experiment,” Blaise said.
“It matters not. No more magic today—or your wretched experiments! I shall stop by Wizard Edvin’s workshop tomorrow to aid you instead.” He tucked his hands in the sleeves of his robe then swept off.
“That old troll,” Blaise huffed, returning to Elvish with his departure. “Always watching to make sure I can’t do anything interesting.”
Myth chuckled. “Such is the life of a genius.”
“Genius,” Blaise absent-mindedly corrected Myth’s pronunciation. “You’re just a hair off and need to stress the syllables a little more.”
“Genius,” Myth repeated.
“There you go. And I am not a genius.” Blaise fussed with the purple and white skirt of her apprentice uniform. “If I was, I’d pick up Elvish faster. And my teachers wouldn’t be constantly fretting that I’m going to blow the tower up!”
Myth merely shook her head—her friend had long denied her remarkable magic abilities, even though she was nearly a graduate of the wizard program, which would make her one of the youngest wizards in Calnor’s history.
“If we want to talk about geniuses, we should be talking about you,” Blaise said in Calnoric before switching back to Elvish. “How are your studies? What new language are you learning now?”
“I’m continuing to work on the written language of Calnor,” Myth said. “But lately I’ve been studying the language of Finlay in the far west. It’s a fascinating language that is proving to be easier to learn, although they have a symbol-based writing system that will likely take me a decade to truly master.”
Blaise shook her head. “You have got to be the only translator who picks up languages the way some people pick up hobbies.”
“It’s hardly something to be praised for. Linguistics interest me, and many of the languages I’m learning won’t further my career or be of help to anyone.”
Myth refrained from mentioning she had found a few original High Elf manuscripts in the Library of Haven that described High Elf magic. She didn’t want to get Blaise too excited about the topic, only to discover her knack for languages didn’t work when it came to deciphering the ancient runes of her absent cousins.
Although High Elves technically used the same language, Elvish—as all languages did—had morphed over the centuries and rapidly changed once the High Elves had left the continent and sailed across the seas. So the older the books were, the smaller the chance Myth would be able to read them.
“You don’t value yourself enough,” Blaise declared, setting her teacup and saucer down on the table.
Myth smiled and chose to tactfully change the topic. “Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
“Oohhh, if we’re eating at the Translators’ Circle, then surely!”
“I’m afraid not. A number of us trade translators have been invited to a luncheon provided for us by the royals as a thank you for smoothing out a few wrinkles for the orders sent requesting elven goods. I’m allowed to bring a guest, and I thought you’d find it interesting.”
“It sounds fun, and I always appreciate free food.” Blaise briefly drummed her fingers on her knees as her forehead wrinkled—probably trying to recall the right words in Elvish. “I’ll look ahead to it!”
“The proper phrase would be to look forward to it.”
“Look forward, got it. How has work been? You can’t still be observing translators.”
“I’m afraid so.” Myth sighed, then heartened herself with another sip of tea.
“What?” Blaise abruptly switched to Calnoric. “Wait, I must have said