The Rithmatist

entrance caused quite a stir. Students looked up, and the watching crowd began to buzz. Melody didn’t see him. She was still kneeling, head down, oblivious to the whispers and occasional calls of laughter that Joel’s entrance prompted.
    The large clock on the wall rang out, bells marking the hour. It was noon, and once the twelfth chime rang, the students could start drawing. Forty clicks sounded as students placed their chalk against the black stone floor. Melody reached out hesitantly.
    Joel knelt and snapped his chalk to the ground beside hers.
    She looked up with shock. “Joel? What the dusts are you doing ?”
    “I’m annoyed at you,” he said.
    “Huh?”
    “You came out here to get humiliated, and you didn’t even invite me along!”
    She hesitated, then smiled. “Idiot,” she said. “You’re not going to prove anything to me by going down faster than I do.”
    “I don’t intend to go down,” Joel said, holding up his blue piece of chalk. The sixth chime rang. “Just draw what I do.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Trace me. Dusts, Melody, you’ve practiced tracing all summer! I’ll bet you can manage it better than anyone here. Where you see blue, draw over it with white.”
    She hesitated, and then a broad, mischievous smile split her mouth.
    The twelfth bell rang, and Joel began to draw. He made a large circle around both him and Melody, and she followed, tracing his line exactly. He finished, but then stopped.
    “What?” Melody said.
    “Safe and simple?”
    “Dusts, no!” she said. “If we go out, we go out dramatically! Nine-pointer!”
    Joel smiled, stilling his hands as he listened to the drawing all around him. He could almost believe himself a Rithmatist.
    He set his chalk back down, divided the circle in his head, and began to draw.
    * * *
    Professor Fitch stood quietly on the glass floor, a cup held in his hand, though he didn’t drink. He was too nervous. He was afraid his hand would shake and spill tea all over him.
    The viewing lounge atop the arena was quite nice, quite nice indeed. Maroon colorings, dim lighting from above as to not distract from what was below, iron girders running between the glass squares so that one didn’t get too much of a sense of vertigo by standing directly above the arena floor.
    Fitch generally enjoyed the view and the privileges of being a professor. He had watched numerous duels from this room. That, however, didn’t make the experience any less nerve-racking.
    “Fitch, you look pale,” a voice said.
    Fitch looked over as Principal York joined him. Fitch tried to chuckle at the principal’s comment and dismiss it, but it kind of came out weakly.
    “Nervous?” York said.
    “Ah, well, yes. Unfortunately. I much prefer the midwinter duel, Thomas. I don’t usually have students in that one.”
    “Ah, Professor,” York said, patting him on the shoulder. “Just two days ago you faced down a Forgotten, for dusts’ sake. Surely you can stand a little bit of dueling stress?”
    “Hum, yes, of course.” Fitch tried to smile. “I just … well, you know how I am with confrontation.”
    “There is, of course, no contest,” another voice said.
    Fitch turned, looking through the collection of professors and dignitaries to where Nalizar stood in his red coat. He wore the one that had once belonged to Fitch—the other one had been ruined by acid.
    “My students are the best trained,” Nalizar continued. “We’ve been practicing duels all summer. You will soon see the importance of building a strong, quick offense.”
    A strong, quick offense makes for excellent dueling, Fitch agreed in his head. But it makes for terrible defensive practice on the battlefield, where you’ll likely be surrounded.
    Nalizar couldn’t see that, of course. All he saw was the victory. Fitch couldn’t really blame the man—he was young. Attacking fast often seemed so important to those who were in their youths.
    York frowned. “That one is too arrogant for my tastes,” the principal said softly. “I’m … sorry, Fitch, for bringing him on campus. If I’d known what he’d do to you…”
    “Nonsense, Thomas,” Fitch said. “Not your fault at all, no, not at all. Nalizar will grow wiser as he ages. And, well, he certainly did shake things up here!”
    “A shakeup isn’t always for the best, Fitch,” York said. “Particularly when you’re the man in charge and you like how things are running.”
    Fitch finally took a sip of his tea. Down