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you done, boy?” he whispered, more alarmed than Niryn had ever seen the man. “What in the name of the Maker did you do?”

      Niryn sat up slowly and looked around. A small crowd was gathering, servants and nobles alike, while others ran for water. The three boys who’d been tormenting him were gone.

      Water had no effect on the blue fire. It continued to burn until the arbor was reduced to ash.

      Guardsmen came with the water carriers and their captain demanded to know what had happened. Niryn couldn’t answer them because he had no idea. His father remained dumb, as usual. At last a broad-shouldered man pushed through the crowd, dragging one of Niryn’s attackers by the ear. The young lord cringed beside him.

      “I understand this young rascal was using you for target practice,” the soldier said to Niryn, still holding the boy almost up on his toes.

      Even in such an embarrassing position, the boy was looking daggers at Niryn, letting him know what his fate would be if he told.

      “Come on now, lad, find your tongue,” the man demanded. He wasn’t angry with Niryn, it seemed, just impatient to complete an unpleasant task. “I’m Porion, swordmaster to the Royal Companions and I’m responsible for the behavior of the boys. Is he one of them who hurt you?”

      Niryn’s father caught his eye, silently warning Niryn to keep silent, stay invisible.

      “I don’t know. I had my back to ’em,” Niryn mumbled, staring down at his dirty clogs.

      “You sure about that, lad?” Master Porion demanded sternly. “I had it from some of his fellows that he was one of them.”

      He could feel Master Porion’s eyes on him, but he kept his head down and saw the young lord’s fine bootheels settle in the grass as the older man released him.

      “All right then, Nylus, you get back to the practice yard where you belong. And don’t think I won’t keep an eye on you!” Porion barked. The young lord gave Niryn a last, triumphant smirk and strode away.

      Porion remained a moment, staring pensively at the ruined arbor. “Word is you did this, lad. That the truth?”

      Niryn shrugged. How could he? He didn’t even have a flint.

      Porion turned to his father, who’d been lingering nearby. “He’s your boy?”

      “Aye, sir,” his father mumbled, unhappy not to be invisible to this man.

      “Any wizard blood in your family?”

      “None that I know of, sir.”

      “Well, you’d better get him to a proper wizard who can judge, and soon, before he does something worse than a little fire.”

      Porion’s face grew sterner still as he glanced back at Niryn. “I don’t want him on the Palatine again. That’s the queen’s law. An unschooled wizard-born is too dangerous. Go on, take him away and get him seen to, before he hurts someone.”

      Niryn looked up in disbelief. The other boy had gotten away with hurting him, and now he was to be punished? Throwing caution to the wind, he fell at Master Porion’s feet. “Please, sir, don’t send me off! I’ll work hard and not make any more trouble, I swear by the Maker!”

      Porion pointed to the ruined arbor. “Didn’t mean to do that, either, did you?”

      “I told you, I couldn’t—!”

      Suddenly his father’s broad hand closed over his shoulder, yanking him to his feet. “I’ll take charge of him, sir,” he told Porion. Gripping Niryn’s thin arm, he marched his son like a criminal out of the gardens and away from the palace.

      His mother beat him for losing his position and the small pay that went with it. “You’ve shamed the family!” she railed, bringing the belt down across his thin shoulders. “We’ll all go hungry now, without the extra silver you brought home.”

      His father stayed her hand at last and carried the sobbing boy up to his cot.

      For the first time in Niryn’s life, his father sat by his bed, looking down at him with something like actual interest.

      “You don’t remember nothing, son? Are you telling me the truth?”

      “No, Dad, nothing, until I seen the arbor burning.”

      His father sighed. “Well, you done it, putting yourself out of a position. Wizard-born?” He shook his head and Niryn’s heart sank. Everyone knew what happened to those of their station unlucky enough to be born with a touch of wild power.

      Niryn didn’t sleep at all that night, caught up in dire imaginings. His family would starve, and he’d be set out on the road to be marked and stoned, all because of what those young lords called fun! How he wished he had spoken up when he had the chance. His face burned at the thought of his own fruitless obedience.

      That thought took root, watered with shame at how he’d let a single look from the guilty one silence him. If he’d spoken up, maybe they wouldn’t have cast him out! If those three boys hadn’t used him for their sport, or if his father had made them stop, or if Niryn had moved or turned sooner or tried to fight back—

      If, if, if. It ate at him and he felt the dark feeling well up again. In the darkness, he felt his hands tingling and when he held them up, there were blue sparks dancing between his fingers like sheet lightning. It scared him and he thrust them into the water jug by his bed, fearing he’d set the bedclothes on fire.

      The sparks stopped and nothing bad happened. And as his fear subsided, he began to feel something new, something else he’d never felt before.

      It was hope.

      He spent the next few days wandering the marketplaces, trying to catch the attention of the conjurers who plied their trade there, selling charms and doing fancy spells. None of them were interested in a gardener’s boy in homespun clothes. They laughed him away from their little booths.

      He’d begun to think he might indeed have to starve or take to the road, when a stranger showed up at the cottage door while his parents were away at their work.

      He was a stooped, ancient-looking man with long dirty whiskers, but he was dressed in a very fine robe. It was white, with silver embroidery around the neck and sleeves.

      “Are you the gardener’s boy who can make fire?” the old man asked, staring hard into Niryn’s eyes.

      “Yes,” Niryn replied, guessing what the old man was.

      “Can you do it for me now, boy?” he demanded.

      Niryn faltered. “No, sir. Only when I’m angry.”

      The old man smiled and brushed past Niryn without an invitation. Looking around the spare, humble room, he shook his head, still smiling to himself. “Just so. Had your fill of ’em and lashed out, did you? That’s how it comes to some. That’s how it came to me. Felt good, I expect? Lucky for you that you didn’t set them on fire, or you’d not be sitting here now. There’s lots of wild seeds like yourself, that get themselves stoned or burned.”

      He lowered himself into Niryn’s father’s chair by the hearth. “Come, boy,” he said, gesturing for Niryn to stand before him. He placed a gnarled hand on Niryn’s head and bowed his own for a moment. Niryn felt a strange tingle run down through his body.

      “Oh, yes! Power, and ambition, too,” the old man murmured. “I can make something of you. Something strong. Would you like to be strong, boy, and not let young whelps like that take advantage of you ever again?”

      Niryn nodded and the old man leaned forward, eyes glowing like a cat’s in the dim light of the cottage. “A quick answer. I can see your heart in those red eyes of yours; you’ve had a taste of what wizardry is, and you liked it, didn’t you?”

      Niryn wasn’t certain that was true. It had scared him, but under this stranger’s knowing

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