Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,25

in and of itself, though you may not realize it, Miss Beck.”

Nelle kept nodding, hoping she looked intelligent and thoughtful. This was not how she’d expected magic lessons to begin. Then again, did she really think the mage would hand her a book of spells and have her conjuring slimeballs within the first fifteen minutes? She cupped her chin in her hand, elbow resting on the edge of the table, and forced herself to take in each word.

“But you must remember,” the mage continued, “that there is no single pure language, no truly pure language, in all the known worlds. Every culture of humankind strives to the best of its ability to transfer the thoughts, ideas, realities, and beliefs that exist in the realm of the mind into communicable shape—but the transference, through the medium of articulate speech, will always be imperfect. There will always be nuances of thought that language cannot articulate. Not in its purest sense. Only one language comes close to what the Miphates have deemed true purity. And what language is that, Miss Beck?”

Nelle blinked, taken aback. She hadn’t expected quizzing at this stage. “Um, it’s um . . .” What was that strange word he’d used? She’d heard him say it once or twice already. “It’s Old Ara . . . Araneli?” she hazarded.

“Wrong.”

Naturally. Nelle barely kept from rolling her eyes. Heat flushed her cheeks, but Silveri didn’t look disappointed or frustrated. He was too keen, too excited about the revelations he was sharing to notice her embarrassment.

“The only nearly pure language in all the known worlds,” he said, “is the language of mathematics. It is the one language that every culture, every race understands. A true universal. The symbols and organizations used to form the ideas expressed in mathematics are the same throughout every country in our world. Through mathematics, the men and women of science may express the inexpressible in such a way that all who have been taught the language may comprehend it with a purity of comprehension beyond debate or deniability.”

Again, Nelle found herself nodding blankly. Her enthusiasm waned as the mage droned on. Was magic study going to be like writing out long arithmetic?

At length, however, Silveri’s lecture took a turn for the better. “By the pre-Pledge year Eight Hundred Sixteen, the early Miphates of Corintar discovered that the language of mathematics, despite being the universal language they had always sought, was, if anything, too pure for a comprehensive study of magic. So, the great mathematician mages began a fresh search. A hunt, as it were, for a language that could achieve the same level of logical universality without compromising the importance of nuance. A nearly impossible task, a task for which all studied mortal languages were woefully inadequate.

“It was Verof Chon of the Yian School of Miphates who finally turned to the worlds beyond our own in his search for a language to serve the purposes of mortal magic. It was he who first delved into the possibilities of Old Araneli—an ancient fae tongue from the dawn of time itself, back before the paths of man and fae had wholly diverged, branching into different realms and worlds and realities.”

Her first guess wasn’t so entirely wrong after all. Nelle tilted her head to hide a smile in the palm of her hand.

Silveri went on about this Miphato Chon and his discoveries for what felt like an age. All the while, rain pattered steadily against the door and dripped through the cracks in the walls and windows, pooling about the floor. Since Silveri didn’t seem bothered by it, Nelle decided not to be as well. She listened with as much attention as she could manage, hoping she was soaking in at least the most important parts of this lecture.

Was this truly necessary? After all, she wouldn’t be here long enough to make any real progress in magic study. Gaspard had given her three weeks to find and snatch the Rose Book. She had already used six days. How many more could she afford to give to this pursuit that was ultimately a mere deflection of her true purpose?

At long last the mage’s lecture wound to an end, and he told her to take up her quill. Nelle’s interest quickened at once . . . but receded again when the first thing the mage told her to do was to write out her alphabet, one character at a time. Not even the Old Araneli alphabet—just the same old letters she’d learned as