He notices. He smiles. “Too much self-reliance won’t get us anywhere.”

Taralda knows that ‘self-reliant’ is Ambrose’s censored way of saying ‘arrogant.’

“The strength of Raikoth as a country does not solely lie in the Council of Archmages. We are each a link of the chainmail. Perhaps, last time, you fell into the trap of being spread too thin.”

No, but it mostly lies in her. 

That's a problem. She is not hasty, she is not prideful, she can learn from her own mistakes - and she has learned that Raikoth fell last time because she was the only competent person left alive after Hakim, and she will inevitably have some blind spot. 

Ambrose isn't wrong. For her country to endure, its citizens need to grow up. It's why she went along with the Church of Iomedae, for all her misgivings. 

She doesn't actually have a vote on the Council. 

But she does have a lot of influence. 

Taralda. I have a proposition for you...

"I withdraw my application. I recommend that you take on Ambrose as Archmage."

Ambrose’s attention shoots to her, his hair whipping around. “What?”

His jaw all but hangs open. What is this? What is her game here?

She can keep quite a good poker face, actually. 

NO NO NO-

"That's an... interesting choice."

"Some would even say concerning."

"I have learned more of the details of the position, and at this time I no longer wish to be considered." Because she's just had a better offer. 

Oh, she has missed being able to give Ambrose orders. 

He stares at her with piercing eyes.

…

No, this isn’t a ploy.

Whatever this is, he will find out.

Great. Now it doesn’t feel like he’s earned the position. He’ll have to make up for that, he supposes.

He turns back to the Archmagi slowly, a smile on his lips. “May I take my seat now, then?”

"You must create a Staff of your own, first."

AHSHAHDHSGSHXHSHDJSNXXNSNXHSJAHSAJHAHSJSHGSAAAAAAAAAAAADFJDKSLAKKAKDKKDKSKLKKLHJAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAJAJAJJFKDKKKKKDDJJDJAAAAAAAADDBXNXNDJIEJDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111!1!!!!1!!!1!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!!11!1111!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He is the picture of calm. “Of course. It is an honour to be accepted into your ranks, Archmagi. As a child, I was raised on tales of your deeds.”

As soon as they are dismissed, he is grabbing Taralda and demanding she explain everything.

This is how the Staves of the Magi out of ancient Raikoth are made: 

Carved from the wood of a flying rowan, lightning-struck, cut with a named blade; scribed with the Nine Circles of Wizardry in purest mithril; woven all about with secret spells; topped with a jewel, and with a core of a phoenix's feather; bathed in the blood of the earth, and sealed with the strength of an unborn babe. 

"I got a better offer. Rest assured that we shall be working together quite closely."

“Explain.”

"I wonder if I should?" She is enjoying herself immensely.

Ambrose isn’t sure whose hair he’s going to pull out first: his or Taralda’s.

“Have we not been friends for centuries? Are you not the godmother to my children? Come on.”

She inspects her fingernails. "The Council has other functions, beyond what is publicly known. You may be apprised of them when you have taken your seat - they are most secret. Apparently there was substantial feeling that you are correct, that Raikoth was spread too thin last time. And so arrangements are being made to... support the Council in these other functions. And provide oversight. I am to be given authority over certain security duties of the Council." Which, naturally, will involve the Gate falling under her authority. 

Ambrose is still, staring at her. Taralda presumes with much smug satisfaction that he is seething.

The next thing she knows, she has been plucked from the ground as is being spun around. Both of their feet have left the air; he laughs and squeezes her tight, their robes whipping around them.

“Taralda, that’s amazing!”