PART 3
Three days after becoming allies with a group of renegade spies, I stroll into the University on a sunny morning, wearing a heavy gray robe I bought at a little shop selling various school supplies for beginning students. The fabric is stifling, but it's important to fit in as much as possible. Thankfully, I don't need to worry about wearing the iron band around my neck that's become the new standard for commoners around the city. If I'm accepted into the University, they'll give me iron bracelets to indicate which semester I'm in, my primary area of study, and the sponsors I have among the current members of the church, if any. Until then, it's perfectly reasonable for me to be iron-less, since I'm claiming to be the ward of a minor lord who lives on the outskirts of the Ylvemoran countryside.
Explain to me again why if you're just pretending to be one of them, you need to ask permission, Balsevor says.
Balsevor doesn't approve of my methods of creating a false identity. He's made it clear he thinks a simple disguise should be more than sufficient. Or maybe he senses that there's more to my desire to join the University than snooping around. Sindred may have sent me here to find out where exactly my mother is located, but that's not the reason I decided to enroll as a real student. Crazy that I might actually want to learn something at a school for wizards. I'm looking forward to this, and I'm not sure how much of that is for the nostalgic fulfilment of a childhood dream. I may be known as an impressive magic user in the Wood, but my power is limited. Maybe, by learning some basic spellcasting, I'll be able to harness my abilities, use them in more versatile ways. More human ways.
The Hall of Admissions is a rather squat building built off of the library. Since the semester has already started, I'm the only one currently walking in that direction. I push through the ridiculously tall, iron-studded doors and enter a large, dimly lit room with a desk in the center. When my eyes adjust to the new lighting, I see long, narrow shelves along the walls containing rows upon rows of rolled up scrolls. Sun shines through small windows high up on the walls, reflecting off floating specks of dust to create an ancient, mysterious effect.
Two people sit behind the desk. One is an aging woman with a very sharp chin and long neck. The other is a small man hunched in his chair, with thinning red hair and scraggly beard. He is holding a large monocle over one eye and reading a scroll that's close enough to his face to bump his prominent round nose.
"Come forward," the woman says, something inherently critical in her high-pitched voice.
I step up to the desk, smiling. "Good morning! I'm here to become a student?"
"Yes, yes," the vulture-like woman says. "We know. You're late. The semester began last week."
"I was held up. Lord Avermire has been ill," I say, a line I've practiced. "I'm his ward, and help look after him."
"Avermire?" The red-haired man looks up from his scroll. "He has a grown son, does he not? An heir. Why take on a ward?"
"Are you a bastard?" the woman asks, with analytical nonchalance, like she's inspecting the food on her plate.
I clear my throat, thankful that this woman makes it easy to fake awkward discomfort. "Yes, ma'am," I answer.
"Hm!" she says, with a sniff of disdain. "Well, then, let's see your referral."
"His illness..." I trail off, adding a wince for good measure. "The lord is old and dying. He wasn't able to write one for me..."
"Too ill to dictate to a scribe?" the woman asks. "Well, I'm afraid-"
"Patrizia." The man somehow manages to cut her off despite his quiet, wavery voice. "Do you have any other letters of recommendation?" he asks me. "Perhaps from a sponsor?"
