The Zero Curse

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “Caitlyn, Akin,” Magister Tallyman said. “I trust that you are both well?”

  We nodded, in unison. Not that we would have said otherwise no matter how we were feeling. Being asked to assist Magister Tallyman was a great honour. A stint as his TA would look very good on our resumes. And besides, the chance to work on his projects was an even greater honour. Neither of us wanted to waste it.

  “Very good,” Magister Tallyman said. He indicated the sword. “What do you make of it?”

  I walked around the table and peered down at the blade. It still looked sharp, but there was a sense of brittleness that suggested a single solid blow would shatter the metal beyond repair. The runes were dark, almost burnt out; the metal was stained too, as if it had been allowed to rust for too long. There were dark marks - darker marks - around the gemstones, as well as scratches that suggested that someone had tried to extract one of the other stones. The pommel, where the missing stone had been, was a blackened ruin.

  “It’s a mess,” I said, slowly. I could replace the gemstone, but what then? Would that trigger the spellform? “The layers of metal are badly scorched.”

  I looked closer. Whoever had made the blade, originally, had done a fantastic job. They’d layered gold and silver over the iron, just like I’d done, but they’d added frills I couldn't hope to match. It had been a work of art, once upon a time. But whoever had stolen the gemstone had damaged the sword, perhaps beyond repair. I wondered, absently, if the vandal had been caught before he tried to sell his ill-gotten gains. There was no punishment too cruel and unusual for a man who’d destroyed a priceless sword.

  “The spellform would have to be rebuilt from scratch,” I said, carefully. “And if the metal is too badly warped, it won’t take.”

  “It might be easier to build a new sword from scratch,” Akin mused.

  I glanced at him and nodded. He had a point. If the spellform took, the sword would be back to normal; if it refused to settle, the whole exercise would be worse than useless. There was no point in taking the sword apart, then putting it back together again. I couldn't even melt the blade down and recycle the metal. The warped magic would have tainted the blade beyond repair.

  “I’ll have to do some calculations,” I mused, finally. The spellform would need to be perfect, absolutely perfect. “And it might take some time.”

  Magister Tallyman smiled. “I’ve spent years on it, one way or the other,” he said. “You can have as long as you like.”

  And the blade itself, if I succeed, I thought. It was a tempting prize - or it would have been, if I hadn't been able to make a similar sword for myself. I could ... Dad wouldn't object if I wanted to design and forge a weapon more suited to a young lady. And yet, if I did manage to repair a broken Object of Power, it would be a remarkable achievement. But it might just be a waste of time.

  “I’ll work on it,” I promised.

  Magister Tallyman nodded, then led Akin away. I bent back over the sword, trying to memorise every last inch of the blade. The magical discharge had caused quite a lot of damage. I’d have to hope the internal damage wasn't so bad, although I was fairly sure that was just whistling in the dark. I honestly wasn't certain just how much damage the blade could take before the spellform failed completely. If it was too far gone, I was simply wasting my time.

  I reached for my notebook and started to make a note of every imperfection. If I accounted for them all, when I devised the spellform, I might be able to make everything snap back into place. But if I didn't ... I was torn between a desire to prove I could do it and a reluctance to waste time. I had too much else to do over the next few weeks. Writing an essay in response to Magister Niven’s statement was the least of it.

  And yet, I mused as I worked on the blade, where does the power come from?

  The question had bugged me ever since I’d left Magister Niven’s classroom. I’d brewed a potion to infuse magic into other potions, but I hadn’t used it when I’d made my stirrers. I knew who’d charged half of them, yet ... the others hadn't been charged. They’d been designed to work without being charged. But that thought took me right back to the original question. Where did the power come from?

  I finished sketching the sword, then sat down on a stool while I re-read my notes. I’d need Magister Tallyman - or someone - to check my work before I started trying to repair the blade. And then I’d have to plan out every step ... it wouldn't be easy. I knew better than to start at once, even though part of me wanted to. I needed to sleep on it before doing anything else.

  Magister Tallyman walked back over to me. “Any luck?”

  “Just a little,” I said. The more I thought about it, the surer I was that I could repair the blade. But a tiny mistake would ruin everything. “I’ll have to finish the calculations first.”

  “Leave it until later,” Magister Tallyman suggested. “Why don’t you work on the flying machine instead? Or a project of your own?”

  It wasn't a dismissal. He knew, as well as I did, that sometimes you had to step back from a project for a while, just so you could look at it with fresh eyes. I pocketed my notebook - I’d write out the calculations completely before I asked him to check them - and then headed for my workroom. Magister Tallyman had put the fear of detentions into most of my fellow students. No one was allowed to enter the makeshift workroom without my permission. I was surprised that someone hadn’t hexed the doorknob as I stepped inside. It was the sort of trick I’d come to expect from my sisters.

  And yet, everyone is being nice to me, I thought. It still felt odd. I’d been running in the corridors earlier, just to get to my next class in time, but none of the upperclassmen had given me lines to write. What do they want?

  I lit the lantern, then sat down at the desk. The flying machine plans lay where I’d left them, broken down into their component sections. Whoever had designed it, I felt, had been a genius, or a madman, or both. And yet, the more I studied the plans, the more I felt there was a logic to them that made sense. It was a levitation spell on a colossal scale. I couldn't imagine any magician, no matter how powerful, holding it together for long. The power requirements would keep rising until the magician fell out of the air.

  And yet, there are stories about magicians who used to fly halfway around the world for lunch, I reminded myself. They must have known how to make it work.

  I rubbed my head, then forced myself to work. The runic diagram was insanely complex, but it had the same internal logic. One set of runes provided the lift, I thought; others provided steering and ... and what? I wasn't sure what they did ... I groaned in frustration as my head began to hurt. I was going to have to go to the library after dinner and dig out some new reference tomes. Magister Tallyman might let me experiment with runes without a solid idea of what they actually did, but he’d be the only one. Everyone else would demand my immediate expulsion.

  The power runs through the runes, I thought. Where does it come from, and where does it go?

  An idea struck me and I reached for a sheet of paper. Perhaps the design wasn't complete, after all. Perhaps ... I tried to imagine a flying machine, something bigger than a full-grown dragon. It would be the same size as a clipper ship, perhaps. The Object of Power that provided the lift might not be in the same room as the control spells, just like a ship’s steering wheel wasn't right next to its rudder. What if ...

  The equations made a certain kind of sense, I supposed. And yet, I suspected it would take months to fine-tune my calculations to the point I could take flight. A mistake might keep me grounded, but it might also throw me right off the planet. Coming to think of it, could anyone else even fly the machine? A random surge of magic might prove devastating.

  I rubbed my forehead again as I peered down at my notes. They would have to be checked and rechecked time and time again before I started to forge, just in case. Forging a sword used far less effort ... this time, there would be two or three spellforms interacting together, spellforms that could not be brought into
existence at the same time. A single mistake in my calculations would almost certainly cause an explosion.

  Pushing my notes to one side, I stood and walked to the workbench. I’d collected all the tools and materials I needed to forge Jeannine’s amulet during class, when Magister Tallyman hadn't been paying so much attention to me. He had said I could draw on his stocks for my own projects, true, but I wasn't sure I wanted to discuss my private commissions with him. He’d probably prefer that I worked on the sword or the flying machine. But I needed a change.

  The amulet design was simple enough, thankfully. Spellforms designed to break down or simply absorb other spellforms were easy to forge, although some of the more complex spells were designed to resist any attempt to dispel them. Devices of Power could be easily countered if the original magician had the power and skill to work countermeasures into their spell. And yet ... that wasn't a problem with Objects of Power. Jeannine could be covered with so many spells that she couldn't use her own magic and my amulet would still dispel them.

  I gathered my tools, then hesitated. Jeannine would be grateful, of course, but her mother would be furious. If, of course, she realised what Jeannine had done. Jeannine might just have managed to find a way to untangle herself from her mother’s spells. Jeannine certainly wouldn't want to admit what she’d done. Who knew? Anyone capable of undoing such a spell would certainly be considered a formidable magician, in the days and weeks to come.

  She has every incentive to keep it to herself, I told myself. And she has every incentive to keep her side of the bargain.

  I reached for the silver wire and began to compress it into shape with practiced ease. Rose wouldn't have found it relaxing, but I did. It was a simple piece of forgery after the two swords and the flying machine. I could have done it in my sleep, although I knew better than to try. The scars on my hands bore mute testament to just what could happen if I allowed myself to become distracted. And yet ...

  I’d always been told that I’d have to build a patronage network of my own. Dad had insisted on it, long before my lack of magic had become all too clear. My sisters and I would take over the family affairs when our parents died, after all. One of us would be the Head - the position couldn't be shared - but the other two wouldn’t be pushed out of the family. Or would we? Alana wasn't the sort of person who wanted to share. And we’d always assumed that she would inherit Dad’s title. She was the only one of us three with the power and drive to take his place.

  But if I had a patronage network of older magicians, I wondered, what could I do?

  The thought nagged at my mind as I wrapped the filigree around the gemstone, then linked it to the chain. A simple addition to the original spellform would make it difficult for anyone to see, unless their attention was called to it. I didn't think it would trigger any household wards, if Jeannine took it back to her house, although it was impossible to be sure. Dad had told me that our wards noted and logged anything our guests carried that might be dangerous.

  I’ll have to ask her after she goes home for the holidays, I thought. I carved the runes into the metal, one by one. The spellform wouldn't take shape until the last one was in place and I couldn't do that until I managed to get Jeannine into the workroom, but I could get the amulet as close to finished as possible. I wonder what will happen if someone else wears the amulet.

  I puzzled over it for a long moment as I finished the second-to-last rune. It seemed to glow, just for a second. I stared, then donned my spectacles. There was nothing, not even a flicker of magic. Magister Tallyman had worked hard to keep the tiny workroom as magic-less as possible. Maybe I’d just imagined it. Maybe ...

  Or maybe there was some magic already infused into the metal, I mused. It should have been impossible, but I knew it wasn’t. And that might mess up the spellform ...

  I examined the amulet carefully, turning it over and over in my hands. There was nothing, no flicker of magic at all. And yet, I was sure I’d seen a glow. I was tired, perhaps too tired to think straight. Maybe I should go straight to bed after dinner. But I’d promised Rose I’d meet her in the library ...

  The bell rang. I put the amulet in a drawer, then picked up my notes and hurried out of the tiny room. Magister Tallyman was standing by the table, watching Akin as he worked on a complicated-looking Device of Power. I was careful not to step too close as Akin carved runes into the metal. Who knew what my presence would do?

  Nothing, I thought. It was a bitter thought. I stood next to Dad as he forged and Mum as she brewed and nothing happened.

  And yet ... if Rose’s presence had caused a cauldron to explode, who knew what my presence would do if things were reversed? The thought bothered me, more than I cared to admit. If I had power, why could I do nothing but forge? Surely, I could do more. And if I didn't have power, where did the power come from? The question ran through my mind, time and time again. I had a feeling I’d never forget it until I found a satisfactory answer.

  “Very good,” Magister Tallyman said. He looked up. “Caitlyn. Did you make any progress?”

  “I think I’m starting to understand some of the equations,” I said. It was true enough. “But I’m going to need some time in the library to really come to grips with it.”

  “Take your time,” Magister Tallyman said. He smiled. “The Triad would not be amused if the entire school took flight.”

  Akin snickered as he stepped back from the workbench. “The entire building would come crashing down,” he said. “It would be worse than the South Wing.”

  Magister Tallyman looked distantly unamused. Someone had blown up the South Wing, a year or two before I’d been sent to school. No one knew what had happened, but even I had heard the rumours. There had been threats of inquiries from Magus Court, perhaps even a Royal Inquest. And yet, the truth - whatever it was - had been firmly buried. I wondered, suddenly, just what Magister Tallyman knew about it. He’d been a teacher for decades.

  And he wouldn't tell, if we asked, I thought. I didn't think the teachers were obliged to swear oaths of perpetual secrecy, but talking out of turn could cost them their jobs. Whatever it was, it had to have been bad.

  “Go have your dinner,” he said, curtly. He sounded distracted, as if he was thinking about something else. It was a bad habit in a forger. “We’ll finish up later.”

  We nodded and made our escape.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “This equation doesn't make sense,” Rose said, as we settled into our study room. “Why can't I understand it?”

  I took the sheet and scanned it. “You’re mixing up two of the variables,” I said. Rose had progressed by leaps and bounds, but she had a long way to go before she matched anyone who’d been raised in a magical household. It didn't help that she’d only started studying magical equations a few months ago. “This one needs to be separated from that one until you’re ready to cast the spell.”

  Rose made a face. “Why don’t they just say that?”

  “It’s one of the points that everyone is expected to know.” I groaned in frustration. How many things did I take for granted? How many things did I know that just weren't so? “We may need to go over the basics again.”

  “Or practice with newer spells instead,” Rose said. “Did your head hurt when it was pounded into your skull?”

  I winced. I’d studied magical theory extensively, believing that understanding how magic actually worked would allow me to use my talents. And I’d been good at theoretical magic, good enough to win prizes if I’d been able to use what I’d learned. I could devise a spell, if I wanted, but I couldn't cast it. Rose couldn't devise a spell, yet she could make one work if I gave it to her. Between us, I supposed we would make a pretty fair team.

  “I had more time to study the basics,” I said. I’d spent two years learning the basics, as well as several languages that were useless outside magic studies. Rose ... had less than six months to learn enough to let her pass the exams. “And I had better tutors.”

  Rose
shot me a warm look. “You’re a good tutor.”

  I shook my head. I couldn't demonstrate the spells. And I couldn't demonstrate how theory fitted into practical spellcasting. I could teach Rose a great deal - and I had taught Rose a great deal - but I had my limits. Rose really needed an upperclassman - or a private tutor - to make sure she had a solid grounding in theory before it was too late.

  “You need to restart the equation,” I said. I could have done it for her and I was tempted to do just that, but Magister Von Rupert might just call on Rose to explain her work. She’d be in trouble if she couldn't explain what she’d done. “This time, keep all of the variables separate until the very end.”

  I reached for a stack of reference books and picked up the top volume. I’d found every book within reach on the subject of old runes, although Magister Tallyman had warned me that a number of runes on the flying machine diagrams weren't included in modern textbooks. I had no idea if that was because the runes were useless or their original meaning had been forgotten long ago, but it didn't matter. If I was lucky, I might find something close enough to the mystery runes to give me a good idea what they did. And if I wasn't lucky ...