Much of his youth was spent in the dwellings of his master. 

Of course, this was often against her will. It was all so long ago, you see. He is old – older than he appears. His great deeds, his feats of magic, precede him by centuries of bard-song and legend.

He’s sure she doesn’t mind. She would not berate an old man.

It is with a burst that Ambrose flies into Taralda’s tower, black hair soaring behind him like the tail of a comet.

“They’re hiring!”

The Head of Abjuration gives only a very brief, very small sigh.

Ninth Circle in two years. Two hundred years, and still he hasn't learned to knock. 

Elves do have a tendency to... endure. They do not tire of their lives' works easily, if at all. And the Academy has an effect, too - it's easy to lose track of the centuries here. Taralda looks much the same as she ever did, though in truth she is a little wiser, a little stronger, and much more in love than she was when Ambrose was her apprentice. 

Of course, there had been some unpleasantness when one strange night they had found the castle full of very puzzled, rather jumpy ancient wizards, but being wizards it had immediately devolved into a symposium on what in the name of Mordenkainen's left testicle just happened. 

There was, it had turned out, a Head of Abjuration in ancient days. And the wizards of lost Raikoth were more learned in their art by far than any of them. But College statutes were very clear: being raised from the dead did not reinstall one into an abandoned office. 

This point had required some... emphasis. 

There's a familiar rattle and clink. Access to the finest spirits of the highest towers of the Lost City had done much to cheer her up, throughout the occasionally uncomfortable adjustment process. 

"Ambrose, I really do desp- they're what?"

“They’re hiring.”

He’s grabbed her by the shoulders now, hovering over her desk. Torbjald would be proud of the fire in his eyes. 

“They’ve written Yara off. They’re out there, somewhere, but that means they’ve left their chair wide open for the taking. Taralda – the position is open.”

"...Thank you for the suggestion, Ambrose. Yes, I think I shall send a letter expressing interest in the position."

He stills, staring at her.

“…Taralda,” he says slowly. “I came to ask for your letter of recommendation. For myself.”

"I see."

"I shall of course provide one."

Something in her absolutely refuses to request letters of recommendation from Ambrose. 

She does her best to look normal while she works magic in her head. Truth be known, she was never very good at Telepathy, though she would sooner try to trim Tabitha's nails than admit it.

Headmistress? May I request your letter of recommendation for the position of Archmage of Abjuration? Most urgently, if that is possible?

You may certainly request it!

Now she had to fight tooth and nail to retain her position. But happily, one of the sitting Archmages happened to owe her a favour. 

It's almost disappointing. She was so close to working out the mystery.

Ambrose floats down, folding his arms. His eyes have narrowed.

“You’re sending a message to Tessa, aren’t you.”

Taralda is so predictable.

It’s a good job he thought to do the same earlier this morning, when he’d just received the news. If his pitch went as well as he hopes it did, he should receive a letter from the Headmistress first. He even sent her Imperial cookies, wrapped around Obsidian in a little ribbon, as a bribe.

Happily, however, Ambrose has no grasp of politics. 

Taralda doesn't either, outside of plotting her way onto the college wine committee, but her wife has an alarmingly good understanding. The actual mechanisms of power in Raikoth are hidden, obviously (well, it was obvious to her), and it must be seriously effective considering how very few civil wars there seem to be going on right now, but that doesn't mean there isn't tension. 

She contacts Mithrandil next, and then Atalia. Mithrandil's Queen is supposed to be strong, aggressive; Atalia is the definition of passive. And if Torbjald is right, well... the Archmages will simply choose whatever narrative they like best. 

Mithrandil? They had tea together last week. 

He smiles politely, a mere sheen over those calculating eyes his colleague has come to know so well. “Well, I’d best be off or Galora will actually kill me. It’s our one night away from the kids this week. The… many generations of them.”

With Taralda as his competition, Ambrose knows he has some campaigning to do. He… might not have the job in the bag after all.

…

Nonsense. That position is his.

It is on, Taralda.

He floats backwards, hands behind his back, still with that same overly-sweet smile. “I expect my letter by this evening!”

To whom it may concern, 

It has been brought to my attention that the wizard Ambrose, Dean of Silvermoon, Wizard-Lord of House Deneith, Master of Abjuration, wishes to be considered for the position of Andondi [this in flowing Elvish script], Archmage of Abjuration.

His impressive capabilities and histories of service in the administration and defence of the Academy, including our defence against the armies of the Black City (see attached), quite aside, he is a most able wizard. 

The letter continues in this vein for some time. 

It's as good a recommendation as she can possibly make. She isn't going to cheat.

Even in Raikoth as it was in legend, there are not actually all that many Ninth-Circle wizards in the world. The ones who seem like they might be on the verge of grasping the True Dweomers, far fewer still. 

Both Ambrose and Taralda are asked to present themselves before the Council!

And he is dressed in his finest, of course. With centuries of being married to Galora (and of Taralda threatening to not go outside with him if he wore that), Ambrose has certainly refined his wizardly style.

Although he continues to fear the day he runs into the original owner of his Robes of Abjuration.

The first thing that he does when he sees Taralda (and when he’s made sure that no one else is listening) is, of course, drive her insane.

“Dean Deneith has shown remarkable determination in every facet of his work. The Department of Abjuration at the Silvermoon Academy of Wizardry is, in many ways, indebted to him.” 

He recites passages from her letter of recommendation with the kind of grin that just invites being exiled to a Maze.

"Indeed. I am afraid that 'remarkable determination' was the best I could do for 'terrifying recklessness in the face of danger'." 

“And that ‘terrifying recklessness’ is the reason you’re standing here today. You’re welcome.”

Just a little Maze. Just a little one, as a treat.

He straightens instantly when they are at last approached, pulling on his serious face.

"Do you recall the time you brought a chunk of flesh from the accursed corpse of an aberrant thing that should never have been sealed by long-dead gods into my office?"

"We could hear you."

Other than the slightest pink blush, Ambrose takes this in stride. He bows his head in respect. “My apologies, Archmage. I hope we did not disturb you.”

The soundproofing here could do with some work.

Why would they soundproof it? Then they wouldn't be able to overhear people. 

"We have decided to have you both speak before us at once. Is this acceptable to you?"

His brow furrows. “May I enquire as to the reasons behind this decision?”

She raises her eyebrows, but her lips don't move. "You may. We decided that a direct comparison would be most efficient."