37th of Sifdras - 6th Isharil

  For self study, I go to Professor Marblebrook’s office fully prepared to discuss Dinwold. On time. In clean clothes. I approach E. Marblebrook’s office door, which is surprisingly open as if waiting for my arrival. When I hesitantly peer in, the professor is sitting placidly at her desk, back fully relaxed against the back of her chair and sipping a hot cup of tea. I can smell the wonderfully fresh aroma of chamomile and lavender from the door.

  “Ah, there she is. Right on time.” She intones evenly, gesturing to me to sit on the other side of her desk.

  I nod, closing the door behind me and sitting where indicated, apprehension leaving me when she offers me a cup of tea. I set my notes on her desk to accept the piping hot cup and saucer and in the time it takes me for one sip, she has picked up my notes and starts to read them. I swallow the tisane hard, suddenly nervous about the review of my work and research.

  The professor merely nods occasionally, hum-ing to herself thoughtfully while I sip my tea as nonchalantly as possible. Finally, she sets my papers down on the desk, taking up her own cup and saucer full of the fragrant brew. “Your notes are very thorough. A good quality for a scribe here. I must say, for one so young, your dedication and completeness does impress me.”

  I blush at the compliment. “Thank you, professor.”

  She waves away the thanks and continues in the same tones. “However, you are still a novice when it comes to applying this extensive knowledge to real world problems.” She takes a sip of tea and adds, “This doesn’t mean you can’t learn, it just means your youth works against you in this regard.” Her voice takes on a more measured, lecturing tone as if speaking from a mantra. “The benefit of research should always be for a practical application. What do you think this means?”

  I think for a moment, trying to grasp what she is talking about. Is she trying to tell me to relate my research to the world? Dinwold isn’t about the world though, he is talking about the cosmos, the planets and stars, the very fabric of space and time. I recall the thesis statement I gave her and how she thought this subject would help catch me up.

  I try sounding it out as I go, “That I should apply my research to what is practical?”

  “Close.” She remarks with a small smile on her lips. “The fruits of your labor should always be applied to the problem you are doing the research for. In this case what is the problem at hand?”

  I nod slowly, starting to understand her reasoning. “The unknown source of my magical mishaps.”

  “Yes, so you have all this research from a book I pointed you to. What are your conclusions, based on your reading when looking through the lens of your problem?” Her eyes are intense and passionate, even through the rose tinted glasses, while her tones remain calm. That same small smile the only other expression.

  I try to recall all of the information I consumed about constellations, heavenly bodies, and cosmic events that could relate to my magical mishaps. I am silent for long moments as I struggle to relate anything at all to the topic.

  Noting my silence, Professor Marblebrook cuts through it and my frantic thoughts. “Let's look at it another way. You say that you have had plenty of these mishaps happen to you throughout your life.” I nod and she continues, “So what do those have in common with the cosmos?”. My brow furrows and she goes on.

  “The cosmos has a certain predictability to it, does it not? You have noted several events and constellations that are regular in their coming and going. As well as the formation and destruction of heavenly bodies having certain conditions being met to fulfill the predicted outcome.”

  My eyes widen as my mind now races with the possibilities as she is using the words of my research and relating it to the issue at hand. Instantly, one particular event stands out among the rest and my hand subconsciously wanders up to my neck just behind my left ear; to the two birds circling there.

  “That night on the Darkened Veil.” I whisper the words, feeling the color drain from my face as flashes and forms of almost remembered figures and shadows come unbidden to my mind. As if in response to my half recalled truths in a mucky fog, the mark on my neck grows warm and I flinch at the sudden change, nearly dropping my cup and saucer.

  I settle the cup in the saucer and look up to Professor Marblebrook who is now sitting on the edge of her desk facing me, her hand on mine and on the cup to keep it from falling. When had she moved? The smile on her face is gone, replaced with what I think to be worry or suspicion.

  It is very like an expression I have seen before on someone else’s face and I gasp at the realization. It is very similar to Calas’ expression; the one I couldn’t understand in the Halls of Equity. Now, seeing it on the Professor’s face, I’m no longer sure how to take that intense gaze filled with an uneasy undertone.

  “Are you alright?” Professor Marblebrook’s voice is even but tinged lightly with worry.

  I notice at this moment that while the expression is the same, she does not have the same intensity to her gaze compared to Calas. The wisps of shadows not remembered recede, consumed with the thoughts of the true meaning behind those menacing golden eyes. He really was worried about me then, I think as my cheeks flush with color. I shove down the flutter in my chest to the pit of my stomach, trying to focus on the professor.

  “Yes.” I sheepishly reply. “I’m sorry.”

  The professor leans back away from me and retrieves her own cup of tea from behind her on the desk. “No need to apologize,” she starts, pausing for a brief moment by sipping her tea, giving me time to compose myself once more. “But I do think it would be a good practice for you to write down as many of these mishaps as possible. Perhaps like your review of Mysteries of the Cosmos, having the list to review will help you to understand more about their patterns and similarities.”

  I nod and we continue to discuss the rest of my notes in depth, comparing them to some others of my mishaps while sipping tea. All the while I try to ignore Fara’s small voice in the back of my mind saying, “He definitely likes you…”

  38th of Sifdras - 6th Kaldros

  My Practical Medica class takes an unexpected field trip today. Professor Peacock doesn’t tell the class until everyone is settled in their seats when he starts the lecture, writing on the chalkboard in large letters “Life and Death”.

  “Two people come to you for healing at the same time,” he begins in a stern and solemn tone, “both are critically wounded and it is a wonder they both made it to you alive. You are alone, the only one with the healing skills necessary to save them.” He turns to look at the class wiping his hands free of chalk dust. “It is likely that while you are busy saving one, the other will die. Whom do you choose?”

  Silence and stunned faces, mine included, stare at him. Some are thoughtful while others look horrified and he takes the silence as an indicator to continue.

  “Today we are going to take a brisk walk to debate the answer to our question, so please put on coats and cloaks and follow me through the campus grounds.”

  The air is still chill, the thaw of Everdawn only just getting underway, as we walk in semi-silence on a familiar path through the grounds. Some are chatting in groups, already debating the question. Others, like me are silent.

  It is not until I see the stone pillars of the cylindrical building that my heart grows as cold as the dripping icicles hanging off it. I stop dead as I stare at the Halls of Equity with its eerie carvings of blinded figures and scale motifs. Students pass me by filing into the pavilion on the first floor at a steady pace. It takes every ounce of courage in me to put one foot in front of the other in the direction toward the entrance, instead of running from this place screaming. The one thought that keeps me going, is that there is a professor here and he would not force students to arbitrate. Would he?

  Thankfully, when I reach the interior, its cold benches filling with students, I see that Dr. Featherspeaker has taken up the position on top of the tall, stone lectern. I huff a misty breath and try to relax, taking a seat with the rest of the class. When I sit, he repeats the scenario again and asks if there are any questions before arguments begin.

  There are so many questions from the scribes, as the majority of hands go up in the air. The professor fields all kinds of defining questions about who the two people are, where they come from, and what race or rank in society they are. Dr. Featherspeaker answers each one in turn, stating his appreciation for the questions, but always responding with the same two ideals: what does it matter where they came from, they are here for the same reason, and are you going to waste their precious life blood to ask them both these questions?

  There is considerable murmuring among the scribes before the professor interrupts all conversation, stating that the debate is about to begin and all who wish to pose an answer should step up to the podium and defend it. Scribes start to rise, still muttering to one another albeit more quietly, and line up in front of the lectern while he mutters the all too familiar words to activate it. Hearing those words again, my mind drifts back to when I had said them. Suddenly, I cannot tell if the person saying them is me or the doctor.

  I swallow hard and try to breathe as I watch the professor accept the will of the lectern. I wipe my cold face, clammy with chilled sweat, across my eyes, making sure that there is no trace of ephemeral silk over them. There is no relief when I feel nothing there but the sweat of my palm. I can still feel that weight on my chest in anticipation of the numbness that is sure to follow.

  As my heart continues to thunder in my chest, that glazed sensation of unfeeling, of dulled sense of self, does not appear. Instead there is an echo of a different familiar sensation, the one that I reached for, that was reaching out to me, last time. I focus on it again, that almost comforting sensation that had tried bubbling to the surface and just barely missed last time. In that moment, I can feel more than hear something, a whisper deep in my heart. It calls to me with a familiar, hollow voice, something I can’t help but focus on. What was it saying, cooing to me so softly?

  My eyes snap open as a hand comes down on my shoulder, shaking me back to reality. As I focus on the owner of the hand, another girl from class, that feeling, the whisper from somewhere deep inside me, fades into mist. “You better go make your argument before it’s over.” She tells me before returning to her seat. But I have no intention of making an argument to anyone being a slave to that lectern’s will.

  I look to the line of scribes and there are only a few left in front of the lectern. How long had I just zoned out for? It had been only a moment and yet…

  I stand up, not to join the remaining students in line, but to observe the lectern and how the good doctor is fairing now. Shockingly, he seems almost completely unchanged, still wearing his charming, wide smile as he comments on a particularly petty response; not in the odd forced tones of the lectern, but his own voice. The ephemeral scales show the smallest weight I have ever seen and doesn’t even tip the scale when placed. The sight of it and Dr. Featherspeaker in, more or less, his own skin helps to bring down my defenses as I watch on from beside the line.

  The next few scribes give their own takes on the conundrum. One states that they would save the one they knew better, and another student claims that they would help an elf over a dwarf, but a dwarf over a fae creature, and so on, like an elaborate game. Many students boo and shout protests at the student who puts up his hands and laughs as if it is, in fact, all a joke. The professor’s words seem even more relevant after these supposed “arguments”. What does any of that matter if they both need help?

  Suddenly, there is no one in front of me and I realize, too late, that I had wandered into the back of the line. I try to step away, back toward my seat, but the blind stare of Dr. Featherspeaker, that glowing, ephemeral cover over his eyes like a blindfold, zeros in on me and I am frozen to the spot. “And what is your stance in this debate?” He asks and I only hear the slightest hint of the lectern in his voice, but it is enough to make my heart race again. I reach without thought to that comforting whisper and my eyes go wide when I feel something connect within me.

  Where before it was as if our hands had just missed grasping one another’s, but this time, I felt our invisible tether clasp firmly together; two pieces locking in place with one another. I shudder, an involuntary motion, as the vibration of a whisper resounds clearly within my entire body. “Be bold. Be brave. Fear no man or magic, for you are not alone.” It says without speaking and when I take a breath, my heart flutters once before calming into a normal rhythm.

  I step up to the lectern, staring pointedly at the shimmering mask of mana. I take one more breath and begin to speak. “You told us in our first class that it is the healing arts that are the hardest profession of all the magical disciplines. This question seems to embody that statement as the choice you make directly determines the course of one life or death. If they are truly the same, coming to me at the same time, I would make them draw lots; letting fate decide who was to get treatment first or at all.”

  The professor gives me a nod from the lectern and makes a motion that adds four solid weights on to my side of the scale. The scale drops heavily in my favor and I breathe a sigh of relief as the echo inside me whispers, “Well done.”

  As I return to my seat, I try to maintain that connection, to ask what it is, but I feel the two pieces of that bond be pull apart like strands of a rope. The absence of that other familiar piece leaves me cold as class is dismissed for the day and I am left to wonder just what in the World Tree is this thing inside me?