A Scholar of Magics Read Online Free Page B

rain drip from the brim of his hat, when his escort paused to listen to the chants from Wearyall College.
    The place was beautiful, that much Lambert had noticed at once. The bench was in a spot well sheltered from that tireless wind in winter, ordinarily basking in the sun so that even on that roughest, coldest of days, snowdrops bloomed in the grass beside the ancient foundation stones. Lambert had been admiring the snowdrops in an absentminded way when the sound of chanting transfixed him.
    Many voices raised as one, though not raised far, seemed to inhabit the trees, the grass, every mossy stone of the place—and illuminate it. The music filled Lambert’s chest and stung his eyes with tears. It opened his heart the way only the sight of home and the sound of certain voices had ever opened it before. The change occurred with a speed that frightened him. One moment he was himself, waiting patiently for the tour to move on, and the next moment he was
clinging to the chant, waiting with his whole soul open, breathless to discover how it would change him next.
    Time went away for Lambert as he stood listening, but his escort did not. He stood rapt as long as his guides’ patience permitted, but at last Lambert had to yield and let himself be led away, towed along to finish the tour. As the distance from the garden grew and the intensity of the experience faded, the chant became a separate thing again, something Lambert could think about objectively.
    Afterward, Lambert couldn’t account for the power the chant held for him, couldn’t really believe it had seized him with such speed and force. When he was thinking with his head again, not his heart, it was the purpose behind the music that intrigued Lambert most. The notes held a meaning he felt he ought to understand. Lambert was sure of that, yet all the while his rational mind flipped and struggled like a trout to explain to itself how he could possibly know any such thing. How could he be so sure of something he had never encountered before, something he knew nothing about? How could he be so sure that this was the most important thing that had ever happened to him? What had happened to him?
    The spell of that oddly uncomplicated music lingered with Lambert when he walked away. Lambert agreed to stay and help the top hats of Glasscastle with their marksmanship project. He didn’t know what it was about the chanting that changed things so. He simply knew he needed to hear more. He needed to learn more. He needed to be there.
    From that day on, Lambert had adopted the manners of Glasscastle as quickly and as sincerely as possible. He
wanted to fit in there as best he could. He wanted to belong, but failing that, he wanted to spend every moment he could exploring the urgency that chanting roused within him. He had to put up with the teasing reminders of his debut, which embarrassed him a little more every time he remembered it. But they let him stay.
    In two days, he was trusted to stick to the paths of the university open to him as a guest. The first chance he had, and every chance after that, he’d made his way back to the bench outside Wearyall. That was where he listened. That was where the music of the massed voices worked its way into his bones. That was where he first met Nicholas Fell.
    It had been a miserable day, not raining but just about to, and the wind was unrelenting. After his first disastrous day at Glasscastle, Lambert had worn his best, most unobtrusive clothes, and after half an hour of sitting still, even his heavy topcoat did nothing to keep the chill away.
    Lambert had been joined by a rumpled, wiry man with thick dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. It was hard to not stare at the dark hair, because the man was bareheaded. His voice, when the man spoke, was low, almost diffident.
    â€œI’m terribly sorry to interrupt you,” the newcomer said as he approached the bench, “but have you seen my