23rd of Sifdras - 4th Isharil

  I arrive at Professor Marblebrook’s office just before first bell with my notes, the fruits of my labor in the oppressive Silent Archives. Even though I spent at least two hours in that uncomfortable weight, I am still not so sure how productive it was. The pressure of that place really messed with my head, not to mention, that all sounds of discomfort I made never actually materialized. It makes sense for a place called “The Silent Archives”, but it is much more disquieting, for lack of a better term, to experience the phenomenon first-hand.

  I hear the muffled voice of the professor for me to enter. Just like last week, I close the door behind me before crossing the room to the seat in front of her desk. She is waiting for me, posture straight against the back of her chair, hands steepled in front of her chin.

  “So,” she starts in a congenial tone, “I trust, by the notes in your hands that you have determined a thesis for this little project of yours.” I can’t tell if she is using the term “little” in a sarcastic way or not, but it seems an ironic use of the word to me.

  “Uh, I think so?” I respond, uncertain if what I have is really what a scientist like Mother would call a thesis. I search through the papers clumsily and hand her a piece that is for the most part clean.

  Leaning forward in her seat, she takes it from me, reading silently to herself. After a moment she glances at me through rose tinted spectacles, stating plainly, “This is a good thesis, though I am a bit curious as to why you left out any mention of curses.”

  “Oh,” my voice deflates, “it was actually quite difficult to find any relevant information on curses that even remotely match my supposed ‘symptoms’, if you can really call them that. Besides, there are so many curses that are known, but for every book I found on the known ones, each one of them eluded to dozens more that were unknown.”

  The professor sets my page down on her desk in front of her, nodding. “Such is the nature of the darker types of magic, or like any form of magic really. For every piece we think we know, there could be hundreds-thousands-of pieces that we don’t know.”

  I bite my lower lip, seeing the improbability of finding a solution to to quell the rumor mill with cold hard facts. “Is this project a waste of time, Professor Marblebrook?”

  She physically leans back from me, cocking her head to the side, a serious expression in her rose colored eyes. “I approved this topic, did I not?”

  I nod with slow reluctance.

  “Then I obviously think it is a worthwhile endeavor.” She pauses, letting that sink in and folds her hands together on her desk. When she speaks again, her tone is a bit lighter. “I don’t normally do this for self-study projects, but I’m going to assign you some reading that I think will benefit your research.”

  I watch as she pens a few words at the bottom of my thesis paper and I realize that it is a book title and author: “Mysteries of the Cosmos” by Adire Dinwold. What a strange name, I think to myself, wondering where the author is from that a name such as that would be considered normal.

  “The cosmos, Professor?” I ask, focusing in on the title.

  She hums in a short affirmation. “Since you are not in my Introduction to the Cosmo class this term, I think this is the second best thing to broaden your perspective for this project.” She hands me back the page and I take it while re-reading her oddly angular, yet flowing script. “You will find it on reserve in the Library. Just go to the desk and tell Alice that I sent you, I will make sure your name is on the approved list.”

  “It’s not in the Silent Archives, is it?”

  “Heavens no! That place gives me a headache! Only Mistress Yevvena can go in there unaffected by the enchantments on that place. Well, and the Dean of course, but Chronothurgy is cheating in my opinion. Even so, you might have to share this book with some of my other Cosmos students.” She clicks her tongue in exasperation, “Scribes always want to horde books for themselves, which is why I have to put them on reserve in the first place. Even so, I digress; feel free to get to know them if the subject interests you. They will likely be your peers next term if that is the case.”

  I give a sigh of relief for not having to be subjected to that place again so soon.

  “I see you have visited the archive already.”

  I nod and gesture to the other notes in my hands.

  She holds out her hand, motioning with her fingers to hand them over. “Let’s see what you found, then.”

  I do so and we spend the next hour reviewing my research on curses.

  24th of Sifdras - 4th Kaldros

  Cira and I go walking after our morning classes as neither of us seems particularly motivated to study today. The day is not as bitter cold as it has been recently and we take the opportunity to explore a bit of the grounds. Still bundled in cloaks and warm accessories, our breath forms cold mist as we chat and wander through the light dusting of snow on the ancient cobbles.

  We talk about classes that we have without one another, which is the majority of them as we only have Alchemy and Combat Basics together. I tell her about my Relics class and how Prof. Lighthammer thinks I might have a natural talent for it. I do not tell her that a rock told me its deepest desires, though. Even in my mind, I just know that saying it aloud will make me seem completely mad.

  She tells me about her Botany class and how wonderful a teacher Prof. Greenborrow really is, how many new flora and fauna she has already learned and their properties for magical means. She also tries to convince me to take a similar class with her next term. To which I respond: I will think on it.

  I then tell her about all the troubles I had with incantation and if that is all there is to the class, I would rather take magical history. Cira stops walking at this point and I look up, a frosted breath escaping my mouth.

  I notice then that we have wandered into the large circular building with the stone columns; the same building that houses the Void of Reflection. I blanch at the lined up pillars with intricate depictions of weighing scales held by blindfolded figures. There is an eerie taste to the air, which I cannot quite place, but gives me a shiver down my spine. Reflexively, I look back in the direction we came and notice that the large double doors we walked into are flung wide, but thankfully, I note that we didn’t travel up any stairs. Wracking my brain, I recall the words on the plaque outside of the doors we just walked through. The Halls of Equity.

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  When I look at Cira, she is staring daggers in front of us and I freeze in place, my blood running cold. There at the far end of the room is Calas Duskwood, lounging atop a large stone lectern. He wears that same tattered cloak in earthen tones and has a book open, reading. His expression is unamused as he stares back at Cira and I. “Incantation would be useless for you, little mouse, but other methods might not be.” He shrugs and shifts his attention back to the open pages of his book.

  Before I can say anything, Cira jumps in, her cheeks flush with anger and cold. “No one asked you for an opinion,” she turns an aside to me, “what did you call him? A beast?” Staring flatly back at the dark shape of Calas, she almost sneers. “It suits him. No manners at all, laying on a lectern.”

  “Not that I was talking to you at all, snob,” he retorts emphatically, “but what I said is no less true. Incantation is a bad match for anything based in somatic gestures. Besides, it’s like the weakest form of magic there is.” His tone sounds almost bored if not for the odd gravel-like undertone to it.

  “How can you say that? Incantation is the basis of all magic manifestation!” Cira’s normally peachy complexion has turned bright pink and I put a hand on her arm to try and ground her. This is a really bad idea to pick a fight with him, especially after seeing him literally disappear before my eyes during our pairs duel.

  Calas laughs, a deep, throaty sound, his eyes full of mirth. “That is such a typical elf thing to say! Too bad it is complete horse shit.”

  Cira tries to step forward, but I hold her back by putting my body in front of her, between the two of them. She still shouts at him over me. “Take that back!”

  I turn my head to see one of his predatory grins and he marks his page before closing his book. “No, but I will do you one better.” He shifts to a sitting position up on the top of the lectern, booted feet dangling off the front of it to face us straight on. He opens his arms to the side, palms to the sky to indicate the room. “Ladies, we happen to be in the Halls of Equity where arguments just like this can be judged fairly and equitably.” He hops down off the tall lectern, landing smoothly, and begins to close the gap toward us, his golden eyes focused intently on Cira. “What do you say we debate your closely held truths to be judged by the unbiased scales?”

  Cira scoffs at him, folding her arms indignantly. “Not a chance. How would the scales judge our argument, anyway?”

  He looks down at me and I suppress a shiver. “We will have an unbiased judge arbitrate. Isn’t that right, little mouse?”

  I look between the two and nearly squeak my response. “Me?!”

  Cira’s expression goes from shock, to confusion, to suspicion so quickly that I think maybe she won’t go through with it. But just as I start to walk toward the door, she says, “Fine. Let’s do it.”

  My heart sinks as I look at them both in shock and dismay. Cira isn’t looking at me though, she is too busy glaring murderously at Calas. On the other hand, Calas has a confident smile on his face as he nods at me toward the lectern. It takes me a moment before I realize that the lectern is for the arbiter, which in this case, is me. With a held breath, I climb the side stairwell of the lectern.

  As I reach the top, I see what looks to be instructions written on the stone as well as an etched outline of a set of scales. When I look down at the two of them, I feel my palms sweat despite the cold at this new perspective of looking down on both of them. This is not something I am used to nor do I ever want to get used to.

  They both nod in my direction, Cira with a determined stance and expression to match; Calas with an easy posture, hands behind his back and a strangely neutral expression. I begin by clearing my throat and activating the lectern as it instructs in the worn, etched stone. Once active, I state the pledge which has been carved there as well. “Let not my heart but my logic guide me. May I be blind to all outside influence but those who seek to know their true measure within this hall. So shall this be until the scales are weighed in judgment.”

  Once the words are out of me, I can see as well as feel the aether coalesce around me, thick and constricting. For a panicked moment, there is a heavy pressure on my chest that takes my breath away. Then I feel it wrap around my face and eyes as if to blind me, the mana-soaked aether as a smooth piece of silk over my skin. Even though I can still see with my eyes, there is now a strange numbness to my chest and everything from my neck down. It is suddenly hard to recall why that should feel so disquieting. A searing heat is felt on my neck, bringing my attention to it for the briefest of moments, but then also goes numb.

  My focus shifts to an ephemeral set of scales that rises from the lectern; balanced and without any weight on it. As if the lectern were using me as a mouthpiece, words come from my mouth unbidden. “The first argument may proceed.” Likewise my body moves without my authority toward Cira. Somewhere deep inside myself I am screaming, but all I can do is watch.

  Cira’s argument touches on the same points that she told me over the weekend and revolves around the foundations of magic. How certain words have innate magical properties just as some plants have innate magical properties. The only sure way to manifest these properties is through the careful use of words to call forth the correct and intended manifestation of power that the words themselves evoke.

  Once she is done, there is an overwhelming presence in my mind, forcing me to weigh the argument she makes, trapped as I am by its spell. I am only loosely aware that this measurement is only based on the facts provided, their relevance, and how they are presented to relate to one another. Even though I don’t agree with some of her points or don’t understand the depth of others, it was a logical, well-worded argument. The odd sensation that has control of me takes all of this into account.

  The scale tips in Cira’s favor, weighed down with an equally ephemeral set of three block weights set in the shape of a pyramid. The lectern takes over my voice and I cannot help but resist the discomfort that I feel, wanting desperately to be in control again. Something deep within me stirs, something familiar and foreign. I reach out toward it with my mind, but there is something in the way and I grasp at the darkness instead. The lectern forces the words from me. “The counter-argument may proceed.” I gesture gracefully under the lecterns authority, but my eyes are all violence when they meet his golden ones.

  There is a moment of recognition in the dark haired boy to my stare, shown as a moment of pause before he begins. Calas does so with shocking eloquence, as though he is well practiced in this form of debate. Somewhere outside of myself, or rather deep within myself, I am not surprised that he suggested this little exercise. His argument is structured, well formed, and even lists factual examples in direct contradiction to Cira’s claims that words are the foundation of magic.

  He retorts that by her own admission, plants have magical properties, but if words are the foundation of magic why do plants not speak? He also poses the question that if plants can conjure the same manifested result, say in a potion, poultice, or salve as in Alchemical practices, as a carefully placed word, then does it not prove that magic, functionally and fundamentally comes from another source? He closes with the evidence that many types of magics exist and just as many ways if not more exist to manifest them.

  Just as before, once he concludes, with a nod to Cira and a bow toward me I might add, the lectern forces me to weigh and measure his words. I intake a sharp breath, resisting as I know what the outcome will be, but it is a useless effort. An ephemeral set of six weights in two rows of three appear on Calas’ side of the scale and tips heavily in his favor. Once the scale stops, the words are rent from me, “Your words have been weighed and measured. The counter point has proved the better argument. This judgment has been concluded.”

  The scales sink into the stone from whence they came, the aether around my eyes and my chest abating quickly out of me and filter back into the stone lectern. My hands fall to the cold stones as its magic leaving me has left me breathless and heaving. My limbs shake from the effort of trying to regain control of myself and I feel a cold, exhaustion sweep through me. In the lectern’s wake I notice something else within me. That small presence deep within that I reached for, seeming all too familiar and yet completely foreign. Before I can reach out to it again, I hear a deep, dusky voice, laced with a touch of concern. “Little mouse?”

  I look up at Calas, who at first wears a neutral expression but when our eyes meet, his gaze becomes questioning, a puzzling squint around his golden eyes.

  “Her name is Serea, you pig!” Cira helps me get my balance and we climb down from the lectern.

  Before I can think to say or do anything, she is ushering me out of the Halls, toward the doorway and away from Calas. I can only stare back toward him at his questioning gaze while being practically carried out the door.