“Order, learned folk; order, you who observe. This gathering will come to order.” The gong rang; the Speaker set the mallet down, gathered her robes, and sat; so, too, did the seven Archwizards.

Mulin was the last to sit, on the small stool that was positioned at the focus of their arc.

“Mulin, son of Kavo, Magekin,” the Speaker intoned, “you are here so that we might discuss the events of yesterday, two hours and a third after noon, within the Nexus of the mana font. Do you understand?”

He swallowed. “Yes, Speaker.”

“Good. With good fortune, perhaps we’ll get to the root of this matter.”

He tried not to let his wings fidget, to keep his tail coiled tight around one ankle and, thus, still.

“To wit,” the Speaker went on, “at that hour, while Mulin was communing with the Nexus, the flow of mana did briefly but entirely cease. As Mulin was closest to the heart of the font, it is hoped that his information may reveal something of the nature of this event, and possibly shed light on how it may be prevented in the future.” She looked around. “Does anyone have anything to add? No? Very well. Mulin, I understand that you were brought there because your magical ability was proving recalcitrant, and it was hoped that the mana flow would catalyse an easier access to that ability. Is that correct?”

He ducked his head. A thousand people seemed to be watching him from the gallery. Him, the mighty Magekin. The one who’d needed a push to work magic.

So much for prophecy.

“Yes, Speaker,” he managed.

One of the archwizards sighed. “Speaker, if I may?”

“Yes, Archwizard Sulon?”

“Speaker, I beg the Assembly’s indulgence with our witness. Although the things he was able to do in the Nexus, as Warden Drak has already revealed to us, were quite substantial, he is young. I also think he is unaware of his proper status here, and could use a gentle reminder of that status.”

The Archwizards exchanged glances. A few of them actually looked somewhat embarrassed.

“A good thought, Archwizard. Would you…?”

“Certainly.” A chair scraped on stone. A grey-skinned Stormkin in a robe that nearly matched, his thrice-curled horns decorated with inlaid silver, stepped around his desk, into the arc, and crouched down in front of Mulin. “Look at me, child,” he said, and instead of the carrying timbre he had used just before, his voice was now gentle, even kind.

Mulin swallowed, and looked up.

The Archwizard took his hands and gave them a squeeze. “You are not on trial, Mulin,” he said, still gently, but loud enough for the Archwizards, if not the whole gallery, to hear his words. “We do not blame you for the events of yesterday. All we want is to learn more about them, and somewhere in your memories may be the information we need.”

“But I…” He swallowed. “But it was just when I was trying to shift the flow that it all died…”

“Mulin, child…” Again Sulon squeezed his hands. “I know there are heavy expectations on you; I know everyone thinks great things are in your future. I know people already think you are capable of things beyond the normal. But you are not to blame for this.”

“How -?”

“After the assembly, if you wish, I will explain to you,” he said. “For now, I simply ask that you trust me. You are not to blame for those events. The flow of power through the Font was cut off before it ever entered the Nexus. From within it, there is nothing you could have done to make that happen. However, you were the one person most in tune with the flow of power in that instant. In your memories of that time, there might be something that our experience with magic can put to use, to gain some insight.”

Mulin swallowed. He couldn’t think to do anything but nod. Certainly no words came to his mind.

“Be brave for us, child,” the Archwizard said, rising.

As the elder mage was returning to his seat, Mulin closed his eyes. He didn’t have time to seek a full trance, but right now, his emotions were in the way. While the Archwizards were settling themselves, he spent a quick moment in meditation.

When the Speaker’s chair shifted, he opened his eyes and looked up. He was still nervous; echoes of his fear still lingered there. But he could bear it, now.

They asked; he answered, as best he could. There wasn’t much to tell except for negatives. They asked if he had sensed any weakening in the flow before it ceased; he had not. They asked if he had felt even a trickle afterward; he had not, and had been rather too wracked to check between the time he’d fought free and the time power had returned. Archwizard of the Flame Gurth started to press him, but Daris of the Storm cut him off. “The boy is fifteen years old, Gurth,” she pointed out. “And at the time, he had not only forced away a fireball that had suddenly turned malignant all around him, he had restarted his own heart. Those two feats together would be hard enough for any of us to accomplish, and we’ve been in the trade for, at a minimum, thrice as long as he’s been alive.”

“Let’s not forget,” Sulon added, “that he figured out how to do the latter from first principles, after the crisis struck. He’s had no instruction in healing or even mundane medicine, except for the most basic trauma management.”

Murmurs chased around the gallery. Gurth subsided, sullen.

“We understand your frustration, Gurth,” the Speaker said. “But for those details, we will need to refer to Warden Drak’s observations, according to which power returned first to the Nexus, as expected; the return of power beyond that was gradual but swift, taking… somewhere between two and ten seconds.”

“Mulin…” Lanis of the Night leaned forward, hesitating. “We seem to have exhausted our specific questions. Is there anything you can think of about the moment the power cut off, or just before?”

He opened his mouth, shut it. “A moment, if you please, Archwizard,” he begged.

“Take your time.”

He sat up straight, staring down at the eight-pointed star mosaic on the floor.

What hadn’t he already said? Their questions had covered that moment backwards and forwards. He’d thought all he could about how the magic had felt.

Only one thing presented itself, and it wasn’t how the magic had felt, as such.

“Archwizards,” he said at last, “I haven’t said this yet because I thought… I thought it was just fear and disorientation. I still think it probably is. But just at that moment… it felt like the world… um, twisted. Not exactly twisted, but… like my head was going one way and my feet another, at the same time.”

“Sheared?” Lanis suggested, making a criss-crossing gesture with his hands. He looked to either side, at his colleagues. “A mana storm, perhaps? That is about how a strong instance of mana shear feels when experienced by a novice.”

“The font has weathered mana storms before,” one of them, he wasn’t sure which, protested. “We’ve always had time to spread a warning, and the flow has never entirely stopped.”

“We’ve never had a storm focused on the Nexus itself, either,” Lanis countered. “Or rather, I suspect, on the mechanism. But mana shear in the Nexus would be consistent with that. A sudden reversal of flow – a mana vacuum, if you will – could absorb all the power in the font without actually jamming the flywheels. Even an intense storm – a total absence of mana – couldn’t hold up for more than a few seconds with that much power pouring into its heart… and if my calculations are right, the length of time we were without mana flow would be about right for a major, intensely localized storm.”

“What could possibly cause that?” Gurth demanded. “The font has been in place for millennia without such a thing happening.”

“True,” Lanis replied. “But it does give us a place to start thinking.”

After a moment’s pause, the Speaker said, “Does anyone else have anything to add or ask?”

Silence.

“Very well. Mulin, you may go. If we have any questions for you, we will be sure to send a message.” She took up the mallet and leaned over to tap the gong. “Let there be a five-minute recess, after which we will continue the discussion from here.”