Just then he reached his classroom door and stepped inside. The room was orderly, square, filled with rows of desks. The walls were white, the arched windows wide.
However, the two dozen students dressed in neophyte robes were in chaos. The boys huddled around the windows. Some were yelling, apparently to another unsupervised class in the next tower over. Others were spitting out of the windows, undoubtedly trying to hit the sleeping gargoyles several floors below.
The girls had congregated on the opposite side of the room. Most sat at their desks, arguing or laughing. A few were playing a game that involved singing and clapping.
“Oh…” Nicodemus heard himself say, “…hell.”
The room fell silent. As one, two dozen childish faces turned toward him.
It was then that Nicodemus realized he had been wrong: Shannon was not dealing with the truly fearful. The terror that sentinels and murderersmight induce—great though it might be—was nothing compared to the dread inspired by two dozen prepubescent students.
“You’re not Magister Shannon,” said a pale boy with a mop of brown hair.
Nicodemus most certainly wasn’t. The old man would have marched into the room, blustering with jokes and commands. He would have had the squeakers racing for their seats in anticipation.
“I’m Nicodemus Weal,” he announced with a confidence he did not feel. “Magister Shannon’s apprentice. I’ll be giving your first lecture on composition, so take your seats.”
Shockingly, the neophytes went to their desks. The boy with the brown hair raised his hand. When Nicodemus nodded, he asked, “Why don’t we have Magister Shannon? Where are all the wizards?”
Nicodemus cleared his throat. “Magister, like the other wizards, has been called to an important council.”
“Did he tell you the news from the North?” asked a tall girl with short black hair.
Nicodemus started to reply but then realized he did not know how much information he was supposed to share. He took in a breath and said, “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell you.”
“Or maybe you don’t know,” the brown-haired boy said in a tone so earnest it—just barely—diffused his confrontational words.
“Maybe I don’t,” Nicodemus admitted. “But you bring up an excellent point: I didn’t say if I actually had heard the news; my phrase simply suggested I had.”
The boy frowned.
“That might seem trivial, but it’s a good place to start when talking about spellwriting. Why might that be?”
Silence. More frowns.
“Why would I choose words that make it sound as if I know more than I do? Why might I want to use such self-aggrandizing language?”
“Because you can’t be a teacher without it?” the brown-haired boy asked snidely.
Though flushed with embarrassment, Nicodemus laughed. A few other students were smiling.
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “I was thinking more that such language en-courages you to stop thinking about the news and start thinking about me, which would have helped focus you on the lecture material. Regardless, you must start thinking about such things now; if you are to become wizards, you must question how language is trying to manipulate you. What is it pushing you to assume? How is it distracting you?”
The boy raised his hand.
But this time Nicodemus grinned at him. “Put your hand down, lad. I’m not going to tell you if I actually did hear the news from the North. That was going to be your next question, wasn’t it?”
The boy nodded.
“Good lad. Persistence is spellwriting’s most important ingredient. What’s your name?” “Derrick, Magister.”
Nicodemus widened his eyes. “Derrick Magister? You’re a wizard already?” A few of the students laughed. The boy frowned. “I—”
Nicodemus put his hand to his mouth in mock surprise. “But you’re so young!” A few more students laughed.
“I meant you, Magister,” Derrick said in a tone heated enough that Nicodemus knew he should stop.
“Well, I’m flattered, Derrick. But as I mentioned, I’m only an apprentice.” He turned to the class. “This may be horrible for you, but today you’ll have to call someone over twenty by his first name!”
A few amused smiles.
“Let’s practice.” He pointed to the girl with short black hair. “Your name?”
“Ingrid.”
He pointed to himself. “My name?”
She opened her mouth but only blushed. Her neighbor leaned over, but Nicodemus rushed in. “No, no, you’re ruining the obnoxious-new-teacher effect.”
This won him a few more nervous laughs.
The smiling girl only grew redder.
“Nnnn…” he started for her. “Nnnnicooo…”
She continued experimentally, “Nicodermis?”
He squawked, “I sound like a skin disease.”
Genuine laugher.
“Sorry to pick on you, Ingrid, but it’s Nicodemus.” He turned to the class. “So, now all of you, my not-a-skin-disease-name is?”