Vassal

by Sterling D'Este

  Etienne rummaged around for a timepiece and opened it with a practiced flick. “You’ve got class soon too, Allee. Though I’m glad you came by. It might have been a while before I remembered to take a break.”

  Hesitantly, Alphonse let her fingertips drag off the edge of the journal. There wasn’t much she could do to convince Etienne to study now. When he got into one of these moods, the most she could persuade him of was eating and drinking, and occasionally sleeping.

  If she was perfectly honest with herself, Alphonse knew that Etienne hardly needed to study. He was brilliant. His masters even reluctantly admitted as much. In truth, Etienne stood a fair chance of being a High Sorcerer if he kept on the same path. The title earned one respect and meant a lifetime of hard work dedicated to the magical arts.

  He really would be fine if he didn’t study for the Transformation exam.

  She, on the other hand…

  With a wince, Alphonse withdrew her hand altogether. She’d have to hurry up those many many flights of stairs now. “Finish that pastry and the tea,” she chided him, smoothing her hands apprehensively down the front of her demure, fawn-brown dress. Hardly expecting a reply, as he had already started reading again, Alphonse shook her head and dutifully turned to begin her ascent.

  ⥣ ⥣ ⥣

  * * *

  On the hour, the halls of Moxous filled with students pouring from dozens of portals lining the walls. They were never precisely loud, especially not in spring, but the shuffling of feet and the whispering of so many grew into its own sort of thrum.

  Usually, Etienne didn’t mind the crowd. He had never really fit in with the other students, aside from Alphonse, but he liked the sounds of all those quiet people in one place. It was as if the academy was a living, breathing thing, as wondrous as it was filled with knowledge if only one had the patience to sift. Or perhaps, if not patience, then determination. Because Etienne certainly had none of the former, a fact he proved again as he raced past clumps of students in the hallway, occasionally bumping into shoulders or elbows. He huffed apologies in his wake, but never stopped moving forward.

  Etienne was late, as he often was, having lost track of time while cramming for his Transformation exam later that day. He’d promised Alphonse he would study, after all. And he couldn’t barge into her healing class to tell her about the book, so here he was, sprinting to the room she should be leaving before he lost her in the throng headed to other classes. He was glad, and not for the first time, that she didn’t usually rush out.

  Having hurried to reach the classroom, Etienne was disappointed to find the door still firmly shut; it was undoubtedly time for the class change, as evidenced by the students moving around them, so the lecturer must be keeping his charges past time. Etienne sighed. Rushing might be a bit of a bother, but the one excellent thing about being late was that one rarely had to wait.

  He hated waiting.

  With another sigh, the scholar settled himself against the opposite wall, out of the way of the press of students. The door there was closed as well, though for different reasons. First-year students had classes that let out later than the main population to save them from that mad rush a little longer. Within the room, a young woman, likely an apprentice to one of the masters rather than a master herself, was teaching a class on the fundamentals of magic. Etienne yawned, but with nothing else to occupy his mind while waiting, he could hardly help but listen.

  “Alright then, class, let’s see who’s been paying attention. What are the two steps to using magic?” the teacher’s voice floated through the door.

  “Getting magic from the Wellspring and then using it!” a treble voice called, impossible to tell the speaker’s gender.

  “And why must we pull magic from its source?”

  “Because there isn’t any in our world.” A different student this time, less excited. They weren’t entirely correct either. There was magic in Illygad. It had just been brought here by the mages who pulled it from beyond.

  “And what’s the most important thing to remember about gathering magic?”

  “Only take as much as you can use, or—”

  There. Alphonse’s classroom was finally opening to disgorge its captives, and Etienne stepped forward into the throng to find his friend. “Alphonse!” he called when he caught sight of her. “Wait up!”

  ❀

  Alphonse was murmuring in agreement with Colarie over the uses of valerian root when a voice much louder than the rest of the students called out. Called out her name. Long-lashed eyes fluttered shut in mild mortification as Colarie snickered behind her hand. Anyone who knew Alphonse knew she didn’t like to be noticed in public.

  It wasn’t proper.

  But those same, few people who knew Alphonse also knew she’d tolerate just about any behavior from her best friend.

  Colarie dropped her hand as Etienne approached swiftly and batted her lashes up at him. She was a tall girl, easily five inches taller than Alphonse, but he was taller still, handsome with bright eyes and sharp cheekbones. “Hello Etienne, I heard you argued with Master Estan during the illusions written exam… Something about the properties of the visual field?” She snickered again.

  Alphonse hadn’t heard this piece of gossip and cast a horrified look up at Etienne. “Did you?” she hissed, her soft voice even fainter now that people were looking their way.

  ✶

  Etienne blinked at Coralie, his thoughts squealing to a stop and changing directions, a bit like a drunk carriage driver. “What, oh, yes. I did. Master Estan’s explanation of the fourth principle of the visual field failed to account for a few small but vital exceptions when dealing with illusions of only two dimensions.”

  He looked down at her questioningly. She was blinking rapidly, and it was terribly distracting. Had she gotten something in her eye? There were undoubtedly more natural methods to remove a mote of dust.

  “Alphonse, can I speak to you—erm—somewhere else?” Etienne shot a glance at Coralie rather unsubtly.

  Alphonse only nodded silently and dipped her head to Colarie in farewell before turning to walk with Etienne towards the unused study rooms. They’d be empty now since everyone would be heading down to lunch. “Did you really argue with Master Estan?” she asked. “What if he gives you poor marks for that, and you have to take the class over? You’d be a year behind, and then we’d have no classes together.”

  Etienne looked down at Alphonse as they walked, noting her worried expression. He was not ordinarily good at understanding human emotion, but perhaps he had just grown so familiar with her that it had become second nature. “I did argue with him,” he said. “The correct answer was just out of my mouth before I’d realized it was the sort of thing that might make him angry.” His mind was always doing that at inopportune moments, working faster than his mouth or inhibitions could keep up. “I let it go in the end, though, because I knew you’d be upset. So you don’t have to worry.” Alphonse’s lips thinned, but she made no reply.

  Shortly, they came to a less used hall, on a lower level than most classes, and usually abandoned because of the ever-pervasive damp. Etienne picked a classroom at the end and swung the door open; they weren’t generally kept locked. As the door closed behind them, he rummaged in the bag hanging from his shoulder and gingerly withdrew a book wrapped in cloth.

  “This is what I’ve been dying to show you,” he said, excitement creeping into his voice even though he spoke in a whisper. “I found it! The book I was telling you about! And what’s more, there’s a spell inside that will teach us everything we want to know about the Old Gods and what became of them.”

  Alphonse leaned forward to stare at the book. “A spell? They didn’t just write it down, like a history? It’s odd, isn’t it? That the author would go to the effort of keeping a journal, but then only put a spell in it to reveal the truth.”

  “Because it’s not a history,” Etienne said, his face breaking into a grin as though he could not possibly contain
his excitement. “It’s a memory.”

  He paused for a moment to let it sink in since Alphonse seemed so unsure. “Léger’s journal was the key. He had the title, the lengths his mentor went through to keep it hidden, clues to the hiding place. I think he must have been afraid that the knowledge would be lost again due to Seyrès’s paranoia.”

  Of course, it still had been lost for centuries, but that was beside the point.

  Etienne described the steps he’d taken to locate the book, glossing over the bits that had included an after-dark foray into restricted sections of the academy. Alphonse certainly wouldn’t have liked that.

  “It takes two to say the spell, but I’m confident it will work,” he went on. “We could do it as early as tomorrow night, and then we’d know, Alphonse! The secret of the Old World would be ours.”

  He could be the first mage at Moxous to truly understand what had sparked the great war. The end of Rhosan. The development of Ingola as they knew it.

  ❀

  She had just stared up at him, amber eyes wide as she listened to the gory details of his quest for knowledge. The product, the grungy little book, hardly seemed worth it. But if it really was from the dark times, if it really had been written when Gods and Goddesses had walked these very lands, ruling with magic and brute force…

  It would be the most incredible find in Ingola’s long and proud history.

  It would be the most impressive and noteworthy discovery in Moxous’s history too.

  And Etienne had done it.

  Doubt and uncertainty clashed with pride in her industrious friend, making Alphonse gape up at him, at a loss for words.

  He wanted her to recite an old spell to recount a memory of a time so dangerous and volatile historians called it the Age of Darkness? Alphonse shivered.

  “Me? But I’m—I’m not even in the Sorcerer’s studies! I don’t know anything about this type of magic, Etienne. I’ll just mess it up, your hard work…” She actually took a step back, head shaking aggressively in denial. Surely he had some other, scholarly friend who could…

  But then, Etienne didn’t really… have other friends. Though thinking that about him made her feel guilty.

  ✶

  Etienne laid the book down on one of the desks in the classroom, taking care to keep the linen between the wood and its delicate spine. He slipped on a glove from his bag and opened the book to the pages containing the spell so that Alphonse could see the text.

  “Take a look,” he said. “It’s a surprisingly simple incantation, though it clearly calls for two people and a few ingredients. All we’ll have to do is a bit of setting up and then take turns reading from the book.”

  He looked up from the pages at Alphonse. “I think magic at this time was a bit more straightforward—fewer ingredients. We have everything we need, just about. And I’ll take care of the rest.”

  He was unflinchingly confident in his research and translations of the spell. For all he had come from nothing, Etienne had believed his entire life that he was meant to do something great, something henceforth thought impossible, and now he had the chance to share it with his best friend, the only person that had steadfastly believed in him.

  It would work. It just had to.

  His apprenticeship depended on it.

  ❀

  “Are you certain I won’t just… Be in the way? Colarie would happily do it…” Alphonse knew how pathetic and nervous she sounded, how much self-doubt she had. But this was BIG magic, no matter how Etienne tried to make it seem simple. It wasn’t.

  Alphonse was an excellent healer; she knew that. But that sort of magic just came from within her. She studied plenty, but at the end of the day, she simply was a healer. She laid her hands on the sick, and they became well.

  This was so much more than that.

  But the excited look in Etienne’s eyes had her slowly nodding in agreement despite herself.

  Etienne placed a hand on Alphonse’s shoulder and smiled at her confidently. “Coralie hates listening to me explain my research, and you’ve been there the whole time. Besides, you do just as well as her or better in incantations.”

  He turned and secured the book in its wrappings and placed it carefully in his bag, more gently than he would treat most anything else. “I know you’ll do fine, Alphonse. You’re a good mage and a good healer.”

  Somewhere far off, a bell tolled, signaling the time. “We’ll have to go for now, but will you be alright to meet me here tomorrow night? I can get everything ready.”

  “Night?” she squeaked. While students over a certain age were certainly allowed about the academy after dark, there was a strict rule about no magic unless sanctioned by the Masters.

  This was definitely not sanctioned.

  One look at Etienne’s hopeful expression had Alphonse sighing.

  “Very well.” She tried for a calm, reasonable tone.

  It came out more as wavering.

  “But you better pass that Transformation exam with flying colors! I’m serious, Etienne, really put in the effort.” They were useless words; his face was already lighting up, and she could see the wheels turning. He was unlikely to think of anything else but the spell until tomorrow night.

  “Of course!” Etienne said, grinning. “And I won’t even argue with the Master.”

  ⥣ ⥣ ⥣

  * * *

  The empty classroom Etienne had chosen for their incantation no longer resembled a quiet place of learning. He had shoved the desks against the walls, their legs standing rigid in the damp air like things newly dead and haphazardly piled out of his way. The floor was all but covered in a vast, perfectly circular rune chalked in intricate, swirling patterns. Candles in different stages of melting decay stood at regular intervals, casting flickering light onto stone walls.

  Etienne stood near the center of this, his feet positioned to avoid any of the lines he had so carefully etched onto the floor. He held the book in one gloved hand, his other poised to turn the page, though he no longer read the words inked there. His eyes were fixed on a small pile of supplies he’d left to one side of the room and the dagger lying among them.

  Etienne had been over the lists of requirements and procedures outlined in the book dozens of times. He knew them all by heart, knew their placement in the spell, and likely their purpose, but he could not understand why they were required to each spill a bit of blood. It seemed like irrational drivel, the sort of “magic” practiced by the tribal barbarians of The Wildlands, pointless and gruesome.

  Still, this spell was new to him. The blood might have some purpose that he had yet to divine, some significance that could keep the incantation from collapsing on itself or harming the casters. His instinct was to include each part required to a spell and trust the original sorcerer until he had experimented enough to refine it.

  That didn’t mean Alphonse would like it, though. He supposed he’d just have to tell her why he thought they should keep the spell as it was.

  When she gasped, Etienne looked up from his work. Alphonse stood on the threshold to the classroom, her eyes full as she took it all in. Her already pale features were almost waxy in appearance. “Etienne?” she asked, voice no more than a whisper. Her eyes were glued to the dagger, it’s blade gleaming in the almost absurdly romantic light provided by the candles.

  “Come in. Quickly.” Etienne ushered his friend inside with a steady hand on her shoulder.

  Already, she was frightened, occasional tremors visible in her fingers. Etienne felt a stab of guilt. He should have never roped her into this. Gentle Alphonse didn’t really have the stomach for late-night rituals and taboos. Still, he was so close to real understanding. He could taste the truth, held just out of reach, as though this ritual was but a veil separating him from a lover’s kiss. The scholar longed for it with an intensity few would understand.

  He had to get Alphonse to help him. No one else could be trusted, and he must go on. To turn back now would mean leaving behind a victor
y that he had rightfully earned.

  “Alphonse,” he began, keeping his voice low and calm. “Don’t be afraid. It looks like something terribly complex, but it’s just a bit of chalk and herbs and candles. We’re going to stand together in the center, say the words, prick a finger, and then receive the memory. It’ll be easy. Over before you know it.”

  ❀

  She recalled the very same words being said to her as she entered her last year of studies to become a healer. All healers ordained by Moxous were marked this way, an indication of their competence and duty to heal. Tattooed on her and every healer who had come through these doors, a mark on the brow. The full womb and healing hands, a circle with a smaller one within its center, two artful brackets holding it up. The ink used to tattoo it white, nearly invisible on her fair skin. Still, it was there.

  And her Master had told her the same thing Etienne said now. ‘A prick … Over before you know it.’

  That Master hadn’t lied. While the tattoo itself hadn’t been comfortable to receive, she hadn’t suffered terribly during its administration.

  But this wasn’t a sacred mark bestowed by the academy! This was an ancient spell found in a dusty, forgotten book. Not something simple, done in the holiness of daylight, for all to see. No. This was some secret, arcane, forbidden act, and what little commitment she had to do this for Etienne was already sputtering and dimming.

  “Blood? The academy doesn’t use blood magic… It’s not permitted,” she murmured, stepping aside even as Etienne closed the door, locking it. Sealing them in. Despite the sweet voice and calming touches he used on her, she could see the fevered look in his eyes. He desperately wanted to go forward.

  “I know, but I’m not sure it is blood magic,” Etienne said. “The blood doesn’t seem to have any purpose in the spell. It comes up last, after the words have already been spoken, after the magic is released. It’s probably just superstitious nonsense left over from the beliefs of the time.”